


Science is Stupid

by azriona



Series: Hearts [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Blow Jobs, M/M, Omega Verse, PWP without Porn, Parenthood, Public Sex, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 11:22:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4099189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Science says breastmilk is better.  Stupid science.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. January (Barty is 3 months old)

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically my attempt at pure smut, with fluff on the side. It’s sort of a challenge to myself, because I’ve never felt entirely comfortable writing pure porn. Practice makes perfect, and all, you know. Anyway, it’s been written for a while, but I’ve been sitting on it because I wanted to figure out what to do with Heart4 first. I haven’t started writing Heart4 – but I have a better idea of what will go into it, so I figure I can go ahead and post this. Also, I miss getting comment notices.
> 
> A note regarding the summary/premise – both of my sons are entirely formula-fed. No guilt is intended for mothers who can’t breastfeed their babies: formula babies rock and hurrah for the lack of chapped nipples and those single-serve formula packs that you can carry around in your diaper bag for on-the-go feeds. John Watson means well, but he’s a bit obsessed. Please forgive him, and me.
> 
> I’m also going to do something a bit different with the posting, following a recent fandom trend that I’ve been enjoying. I’m going to post one chapter per month, so that we can follow John and Sherlock’s journey through Barty’s first year. I’m also going to time the posts so that Barty’s age corresponds with my younger son’s age – i.e., today is my baby’s 3-month-birthday, and Barty is three months old in the first chapter. Chapter Two will be posted July 8, Chapter Three August 8, etc. We’ll wrap up on Barty and my son’s first birthday next year. (Hopefully you’ll all still be interested in the outcome!)
> 
> This is about as fluffy as the Heart ‘Verse can possibly get. I promise the only deaths that happen in this installment are little ones. :)

The doctor finished his lecture and looked at John expectantly.  John sat on the paper-lined table, hands resting on the flimsy paper sheet over his otherwise naked lower extremities, and stared back.

 

“Oh, fuck _me_ ,” said John finally.

 

“No, thank you,” said the doctor politely.  “Any other questions?”

 

*

 

Both Sherlock and Bartholomew were sleeping when John arrived home.  How they’d slept through the noise of John stomping up the stairs, he had no idea – well, he did, in Barty’s case, but Sherlock didn’t tend to sleep as deeply as their three-month-old son.  He must have been exhausted, and John stood in the doorway to watch them for a moment.  One stretched out face-up on the sofa, feet overhanging the edge, and the other barely the length of the man’s chest, fast asleep on his stomach, anchored by Sherlock’s arm over his back.  The baby still preferred to sleep in a newborn tuck, padded arse in the air, knees tucked under his stomach, lips pursed as though he had spent the day contemplating life and found it sorely lacking.  John toed off his shoes and hung up his jacket, and then slipped into the kitchen to make tea as quietly as he could.

 

“I’m not asleep,” said Sherlock, eyes still closed, when John returned with two mugs of tea, and John snorted, as if to say he’d never assumed otherwise.

 

“Of course not,” said John, and he set the mugs on the table and reached for the baby.  “Himself, though.”

 

Sherlock caught John’s wrist; his eyes flew open.  “How did it go?”

 

“You need me to tell you?” said John, dryly.  “Let me put him down, all right?”

 

Bartholomew was a hard sleeper – he fought tooth and nail to stay awake, and when he did wake up, he complained loud and long that he’d spent any time asleep at all, and had surely missed all of the action.  But when he did sleep, nothing on Earth could wake him: not Sherlock and Emily’s experimental explosions, not Mrs Hudson and the hoover under his cot, not John somehow managing to drop every single pot and pan in a ten-mile radius onto the kitchen floor.  John lifted the sleeping baby into his arms and carried him back into the bedroom he shared with Sherlock, where the small bassinet waited near his side of the bed.  Bart smacked his lips a few times as John settled him in, covered him with a light blanket, and let his palm rest gently over the baby’s chest, just to reassure himself with the oh-so-slight rise and fall.

 

Three months in, and only now was John feeling more comfortable leaving his son for any length of time.  He hadn’t wanted to leave him in the hospital’s NICU, either – not that tiny preterm infant, without a spare ounce of fat on him, enclosed in plastic and with heat pumped in to keep his exposed skin warm.

 

To look at Barty now, though – most people would never have realized that he’d been born a month too early and under the most frightening of circumstances.  And when he smiled at John, it was all too easy to forget the long nights sitting by the plastic box, reading to a baby he wasn’t entirely sure could hear him.

 

By the time he’d returned to the sitting room, Sherlock was sitting up and drinking the tea.  Sherlock’s eyes immediately focused on John, and watched him cross the room to pick up his own mug.

 

“Go on, then,” said John, sitting down to drink.

 

Sherlock lowered the tea.  “You caught the first train that came through the station and had no delays on your way to or from the doctor’s office.  There was a brief wait in the lounge during which you lamented not thinking to bring a book – an oversight you would like to blame on myself or Bartholomew but is really more likely because Emily had emptied her school bag and it took an extra moment to fill it back up again, and thus the book sitting on the table slipped your mind.”

 

“You’re avoiding the appointment itself, you know.”

 

Sherlock frowned at him.  “Hardly.  The check-up went well, smoothly, and without any sign of trouble.  The doctor gave you a clear bill of health.  Your return trip was equally easy.  All of these things mean that you had a very good visit and that you are free to resume normal activities following childbirth and therefore I do not understand why it is you are sitting on the other side of the room when Bartholomew isn’t going to wake up for a good forty-five minutes and this sofa is extremely well-suited to our purposes.”

 

John shook his head, unable to keep the smile off his face.  “In other words, why I haven’t jumped you yet?”

 

“If you have to use that turn of phrase, yes.”

 

John sighed.  “Because,” he said carefully, “the doctor also said that while everything’s healed up just fine, he didn’t recommend a return to _all_ activities just yet.  Stupid quirk of omega biology, apparently, and trust me, Sherlock, you’re going to love this: introduction of alpha semen will induce estrus in 67% of post-pregnancy cases.  The onset of estrus will cease the production of breastmilk in 98% of cases.”  


Sherlock froze, the tea halfway to his mouth.  “Ah.”

 

John drank his tea.  He watched as Sherlock’s face went through several contortions, most of which dealt with either his fascination with the peculiarities of biology, or the poorly disguised fact that he’d been clearly thrown over in favor of his son’s eating regimen.

 

“Bugger me,” said Sherlock finally.

 

“Yes,” said John frankly.  “But not the other way around, apparently, if I want to keep breastfeeding Barty.”

 

Sherlock blinked rapidly for a moment, opening and closing his mouth.  John continued to drink his tea, but didn’t take his eyes off Sherlock, which was just as well, since after a few moments, Sherlock’s eyebrows started to creep up his forehead until his eyes were fairly shining with a particular idea – and not one that John was likely to appreciate, if past experience was any indication.

 

“Sherlock,” warned John.

 

“I was bottle-fed.  I turned out fine.”

 

John nearly spit out his tea.  “I’m still not entirely convinced that Mycroft didn’t slip something into those bottles that resulted in the majestic ego you’re carrying around.  Doctor Williams said the only way to ensure that I keep producing milk is to refrain from any sort of penetrative sex until the natural onset of my estrus – which could be after Barty’s first birthday.”

 

Sherlock stiffened and set the mug of tea down on his knee.  “Then I take it you do not wish to engage in sexual intercourse.”

 

John groaned and let his head fall into his hands.  “No, you great intelligent idiot, I don’t want to _wait_ , I want to drag you into the nearest bedroom and have you roger my brains out.  Unfortunately, I’m a bit more concerned about Barty’s brain and the fact that he’s bloody lucky to be breastfeeding at all, given the rough start he had already, and if he’s going to catch up to his peers, that means me continuing to feed him until he’s ready to be weaned.”

 

Sherlock tapped his fingers against the mug.  “It wasn’t your fault, John.”

 

“I _know_ that.  But risking his dinner just for a shag _would_ be my fault.”

 

“It _was_ two weeks before Bartholomew was able to latch in hospital.”

 

“This has nothing to do with that,” snapped John.  “He was still getting breastmilk, I just had to express it.  And anyway, you saw what happened when we tried to supplement with formula.”

 

Sherlock shuddered.

 

“Exactly.  Just because I’m trying to be a good parent here doesn’t mean I’m the least bit happy about how biology works.”

 

“You supplemented with Emily.”

 

“I _had_ to supplement with Emily,” said John grimly.  “I couldn’t produce enough milk for her.  Your son, however, is a bit more discerning.  And blame it on your proximity or stroke of luck, but I’m actually able to feed him without having to resort to formula.”

 

“John, I’d like to point out that even when Bartholomew is being difficult, he is still as much your son as he is mine.  The genetics don’t actually change based on his moods.”

 

John rolled his eyes and set down his mug on the table, before joining Sherlock on the sofa.  “It’s an _expression_ , you berk."

 

Sherlock laced his fingers through John’s, and turned as if to say something.  Instead, he leaned in and kissed him, the other hand settling on John’s cheek, holding him steady.  The kiss took John by surprise – and at the same time, didn’t.

 

The first month, John hadn’t really been thinking about sex with Sherlock.  He’d been too busy and worried and stressed, what with Barty in the NICU and Emily tense at home, torn between playing the role of parent and his own experience as a doctor (though his expertise had never been with the particular complications of pediatrics).  Even after Barty had been sent home, and they began the exhausting process of learning to be a family of four, of Sherlock learning how to parent a newborn and discovering that it wasn’t quite what he’d imagined, of Emily’s tantrums upon not being the only child any longer – John hadn’t felt particularly up for anything amorous in the bedroom.  As much as the doctor’s pronouncement surprised him – part of him had almost been relieved to hear it.

 

And then Sherlock kissed him, and his stomach lurched pleasantly, turned over and wriggling in contentment.   Muscle memory took over – the exhaustion of having another human being constantly wanting contact was forgotten.  John’s hands went up to Sherlock’s dressing gown, slid under to feel the warmth of his skin bleeding through the tee-shirt.  Sherlock was thin and ropey under his fingers, the scars from his years away now faded and familiar.  John fell back against the sofa easily; Sherlock leaned into him, an entirely different sort of contact that John had forgotten; his hips rose to meet Sherlock’s, his breath caught and he pulled Sherlock into him, if not eager, than at least receptive and willing.  Sherlock tasted like tea and temper, and he pressed into John, pressed into the kiss, insistent and hungry.

 

John opened his mouth easily; Sherlock tasted like tea and temper, insistent and hungry.  The flat was quiet except for the soft sounds of their lips against each other, their breaths a quick staccato in the air, the rasp of their clothes against the fabric of the cushions.  John’s mind whirled; it was as if the quiet made it doubly hard to focus, he was so accustomed to the quick noise of children and the never-ending requirements of laundry and dinnertimes and school.  He was almost surprised when he felt Sherlock’s hand on the bare skin next to his stomach.  The moan was almost involuntary.  It was also an excellent wake-up call, and John shoved Sherlock away, gasping for air.  Sherlock’s mouth gaped open, the lips a bit redder, his eyes half closed and pupils shot.

 

“Yes,” gasped John.  “I mean, no.  I mean—"

 

“Sorry,” said Sherlock, not sounding the least bit apologetic, but he didn’t move his hand.

 

“No, you’re not.”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes the rest of the way, and leaned forward until his forehead knocked against John’s.  “No penetrative intercourse.  I do understand what’s at stake here, John.”

 

Sherlock’s hands started to move again, as he slowly and with great focus began to undo John’s buckle. 

 

“I don’t really think you do, actually,” said John, too strained to really be amused.  Sherlock looked far from teasing.  He looked as serious and determined to undress John as he was about dissecting the latest corpse newly rescued from Bart’s.

 

“Shh,” said Sherlock, as the buckle fell away, and John bit his lip as Sherlock folded his fly open, revealing the boxers that were already bulging a bit.  Sherlock’s fingers traced lightly on the fabric on his cock, which slowly swelled in response. 

 

This was _such_ a bad idea.

 

Every light press and feathery stroke made John’s heart stutter in his chest, half out of desire, half from not knowing what Sherlock was doing – and another half because John knew _exactly_ what Sherlock was doing, and John was torn between stopping him and letting him continue.

 

He had just made up his mind to stop Sherlock when Sherlock pressed his mouth open over the fabric covering his cock, and John’s arms went about as limp as his will-power.  He fell back against the cushions, and let out a long, stuttering breath. “Oh, _fuck_.”

 

Sherlock chuckled, and his hands tightened on John’s hips.  He pressed another open-mouth kiss onto John’s cock, and then started to work the fabric down for better access.

 

It was a very bad idea, said the last reasonable thought in John’s head.  This was going to end up in the same place it _always_ ended up with them: blow jobs on the sofa led to naked in the bedroom, Slot A and Tab B, and given their track record, a new baby sibling for Emily to dress up like one of her dolls. 

 

“This is a bad idea,” said John to the ceiling, and then Sherlock closed his mouth over John’s now bare cock, and his brain stopped working entirely, except to catalog the feel of Sherlock’s mouth (hot and wet) around his cock (hard and aching), the pull of suction (every nerve centered on the head of his penis) and Sherlock’s hands on his hips (warm and firm, his long fingers gripping into his skin, curving around his pelvic bones).  

 

Every single nerve in John’s body _sang_ , Glory Hallelujah.  It was a regular street riot of joy and jubilation and the first rainfall after an exceedingly dry spring and _oh my Christ_ , Sherlock’s mouth was _illegal_ , and what the _hell_ was he doing with his tongue and why the bloody fuck wasn’t he doing it again?

 

John pushed his head back into the armrest of the sofa, just to feel the hard support beam against his skull, to ground him into the moment.  It worked; he almost didn’t realize he was going to come until the last possible moment, and it was a scramble to pull one of the blasted cushions over his mouth so that he wouldn’t make too much noise and accidentally wake Barty up. 

 

He was shaking and shuddering as Sherlock crawled back up his body to nuzzle his throat.

 

“Fuck,” sighed John, dropping the cushion, now sporting a damp mouthprint, to the floor.  He draped his heavy arms around Sherlock, who hummed a bit into John’s skin.  Sherlock’s cock was a hard weight under Sherlock’s trousers, against John’s thigh, and John knew he should probably have done something to help with it, but his limbs seemed to have misplaced their muscles.  “Sherlock… I can’t….”

 

“Just… give it a minute,” mumbled Sherlock into John’s skin, and curled around John a bit tighter.  He began to move against him, just a little, just enough – holding still at the apex of every thrust.  Sherlock’s breath was hot against John’s skin; John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, and slid his hands down to his buttocks, gripping them tight, as if to drive Sherlock further into him.

 

A gasp, and then a sudden warmth against John’s skin; Sherlock had come, almost silently.  John kissed his cheek, his ear, his neck, his hair, and felt Sherlock shiver above him.  He pulled at the blanket draped over the back of the sofa, and settled it over them.

 

“All right?” asked John.

 

“No,” grumbled Sherlock.

 

John kissed his hair again.  “Eight months.  We can wean him in eight months.”

 

“John,” said Sherlock into John’s skin.  “I am not going to compromise my son’s physical, emotional, or mental health for the sake of a good shag.”

 

“What about a bloody fantastic shag?”

 

“We’ll wait for your natural estrus.  Of course.”

 

“Right,” said John, and tucked the blanket around them more securely.

 

“Besides, there’s plenty we _can_ do,” continued Sherlock.  “As we’ve just demonstrated.   Quite efficiently, I might add.”

 

“Whatever you say, Sherlock.”


	2. February (Barty is 4 months old)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not said in the text, but the reason John and Sherlock are so tired is because Barty is teething and not sleeping more than a few hours at a stretch at night and is mostly a cranky miserable baby in the daytime and their backs hurt from carrying him around all day. Not that I have personal experience in this matter. At all. Thank goodness four-month-olds are also adorable.

Emily’s fourth birthday party was, in many ways, similar to her third birthday party.  There were streamers (pink), balloons (pink), presents (all wrapped in pink), and a cake baked by Mrs Hudson (also pink – the cake, not Mrs Hudson, who was wearing purple in order not to clash with the pink). 

 

However – and it should be said that one parent was perfectly happy with these differences, while the other parent at least knew better than to voice his opinion – there was no kidnapping, no mysterious messages left on in fluorescent paint, and no house burning to the ground.

 

There was also no estrus for John, who was still determined to breastfeed Barty.  Sherlock thought he’d become rather militant about it, reading up on every manual he could find, keeping a checklist of places in public where he and Barty could sit in comfort, heeding every warning about what he could and could not eat. 

 

It was as though the entire La Leche League had taken over John’s normally easy-going nature.  And while Sherlock had no doubt why John’s adherence to all things Nursing was particularly insistent, he didn’t quite know how to alleviate the guilt that caused it. 

 

If he were to be entirely honest with himself, Sherlock might have spent a few minutes during the party thinking longingly of the party from the previous year.

 

Well, _aspects_ of the party, anyway.

 

“Christ, I’m tired,” sighed John when it was all over – the presents put away, the guests gone home, and Emily, in a sugar-filled over-stimulated rush, sent off to the zoo with Uncle Greg.  Barty had been equally over-stimulated by all the excitement, although certainly fascinated by the squealing and shrieking little girls (Emily’s babyhood friend Trevor did not count); he had watched with wide-eyed wonder, and then eaten his lunch greedily and after only a token protest, fallen straight to sleep in the bedroom he now shared with his older sister. 

 

Now John was flat out on his back in their bedroom, having only paused to take off his shoes.  “When’s Greg coming back with Em?”

  
“Thursday, if we’re lucky,” said Sherlock from the doorway.  He sat on the end of the bed near John’s feet, and carefully untied his own shoes.  “You can sleep if you want; I doubt Bartholomew will wake for at least the next two hours.”

 

“God, no.  If I sleep now, I’ll never sleep tonight.”  John stretched on the bed, his feet flexing in his socks, toes stretching apart.  “Anyway, I’ve got to type up the Braxton Hills case, I’ve been putting it off all week trying to get ready for the party.”

 

“You didn’t sleep last night, either,” Sherlock pointed out.  “You should rest, at least.”

 

But John shook his head.  “My brain’s too wired for sleep, anyway, no matter what my body thinks.”

 

Sherlock slid on the bed to his stomach, next to John.  He folded his arms and settled his chin on them, looking at his mate, eyes closed on the pillow.  “You’re thinking about the party last year.”

 

John snorted softly; it was almost a laugh.  “Can’t hide anything from you.”

 

“Worrying about a repeat of last year’s events is pointless, John.  Sebastian Moran and Nola Moriarty are dead, and there’s no one left to take their place.  We’re safe.”

 

John’s chest rose and fell.  “I know.  I just… a year ago tomorrow, you know.  When….”

 

“When we made Bartholomew.  I know.”

 

John breathed out a sigh.  “I just want to forget about it for a while.”

 

Sherlock pressed his lips into his sleeve for a moment.  “Will you let me help?”

 

It was a long moment before John answered.  “Alright.  Yes.”

 

Sherlock didn’t say anything; he pushed up until he was kneeling next to John, balancing on the bed beside him.  John’s eyes were still closed, one arm thrown up to rest above his head on the pillow, very dramatically.  Sherlock looked at John, studying the dark circles under John’s eyes, the way his hair had fallen just out of the careful comb patterns, the open-necked collar of his slightly rumpled shirt, the spot of pink frosting on the sleeve.  His hand, palm up on the pillow, fingers curled.

 

Sherlock reached over John, stretching in a way that made his muscles pull in comfortably achy ways, and gently rested the tips of his fingers against the tips of John’s.  John opened his hand as he opened his eyes, slowly, smiling just a bit.  Sherlock watched as his fingers teetered on the tips of John’s fingers before sliding down each digit, running lightly against John’s skin as if in a race to his palm.  John chuckled.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Tedious, John; we’ve already covered what I’m doing.”  Sherlock’s hand circled John’s, around his wrist to the back.  John automatically turned his arm to allow Sherlock access; it was nearly instinctual.  Sherlock’s fingers brushed against the buttoned cuff, almost as if they tried to cut in, and he frowned.  “Take off your shirt.  Take everything off, come to that.”

 

John hesitated.  “Sherlock…”

 

“You needn’t worry that I’m going to seduce you.”

 

John smiled, and moved his hands to his shirt, slowly undoing the buttons.  “Not really something I worry about, I admit.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.  “You’re making fun.”

 

“Too right,” agreed John, unbuttoning the cuffs to his shirt.  Sherlock caught his hands once he finished, and held them as he leaned over to brush a kiss against John’s lips.  He breathed in the scent of him: sweat and tea and milk and gunpowder.  John’s sigh was half longing, and half warning.  “Sherlock.” 

 

“Trust me,” whispered Sherlock, and sat back up again, releasing John.  He ran his hands under John’s t-shirt, and felt John’s stomach contract, its smooth planes suddenly dipping down as John sucked in his breath.  But John made no motion to stop him; he only looked up at Sherlock with wide, blinking eyes.

 

Sherlock moved his hands up, pushing the shirts out of the way, before they caught just under John’s arms.  John pushed himself up on his elbows to help Sherlock as he stripped the shirts off him – first the button-down, then the t-shirt, both thrown haphazardly to the floor. 

 

Sherlock never broke contact; he kept trailing his fingers up and down John’s skin, noting when John held in a breath, when he giggled, when he exhaled in a slow line.  John was ticklish just under his ribcage.  There was too much nerve damage along the front of his chest for feeling.  John’s eyes crossed and his head went offline, if Sherlock did exactly _this_ with his fingers along the base of his spine, with only the barest hint of a touch. 

 

But here, on John’s side, just under the curve of his ribcage – if Sherlock brushed it with the lightest of touches on his way to somewhere else, John sighed and closed his eyes, and moved his torso more fully into Sherlock’s already absent hand.

 

Sherlock smiled to himself, and made sure to pass that spot at every chance.  He pressed harder in some places, lightly in others, cataloguing and noting the give of John’s skin (a bit more on his stomach than before), the places John liked and didn’t (his chest was sensitive to the lightest of touches –any pressure caused discomfort), and above all, measured John’s breathing and pulse rate.  Slowing, both of them, as John relaxed under his fingers, moving only when a muscle began to tense in a stretch, relaxing still further when he was done. 

 

Sherlock brushed his fingers through the sparse hair on John’s chest – nearly smooth, really, except for the pale patch in the concave dent in the center.  He dragged both hands up, around the barely noticeable curve of his chest to his armpits, exposed when John had lifted his arms above his head in a lazy stretch.  His nipples were strangely oversized, red and a bit chapped, hard as marbles.  They looked as if they ached, but Sherlock already knew how sensitive they were; the slightest touch would make John wince and pull away.  Instead, he tangled his fingers in the soft, silky hair of John’s armpits, and was rewarded with more soft laughter.

 

“That shouldn’t feel as good as it does,” said John, his voice slow, his words slurring just a bit.  Sherlock stretched out next to him, propping his head on his hand, and lazily walked a path across John’s clavicle with his fingers. 

 

“Do you like it?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Sherlock passed his hand over John’s side, across the bottom of his ribcage again, which made John giggle.  Sherlock leaned over and kissed him, pressing his mouth to John’s briefly, before pulling away to see John’s lips open, as if frozen in the middle of the kiss.

 

“Turn over,” whispered Sherlock, but John’s eyes opened as he shook his head.

 

“Too much pressure on my chest.”

 

Sherlock pressed his palm against John’s stomach, momentarily stalled.  He’d _known_ about John’s discomfort, and still hadn’t been able to realize… “Oh,” he said, a bit guiltily.  “I…I didn’t…”

 

John reached up and touched Sherlock’s cheek, lifting himself enough to kiss the side of Sherlock’s mouth.  “You don’t always have to see everything.  I’m allowed to surprise you once in a while.”

 

Sherlock glanced at him sharply.  “You always surprise me.”

 

“Oh, good,” said John, and ran his hand down from Sherlock’s cheek to his wrist, and pushed Sherlock’s hand down his stomach to the top of his trousers, where the zip and button were already straining against him.  “And here I thought I was an open book.”

 

Sherlock didn’t even want to breathe for fear of… well, something.  Anything.  John’s face was open with longing.  “John….”

 

“Please.”

 

John closed his eyes, so trusting, and released Sherlock’s hand.  Sherlock was able to unfasten the button and the zip one-handed, before slipping his hand under the cloth to find John’ cock, half-hard.  It was hard to administer feather-light touches with the clothes still on John, but already John was limp and relaxed; asking him to move in order to remove the clothing would have been counter-productive, if not outright moot.  Instead, Sherlock curved his hand to give his fingers as much room as possible, and settled for light-weight butterfly touches on John’s skin, forming as little pattern as he could, brushing his cock with the backs of his fingers, gradually hearing John’s breath, slow and steady, become shallow as well.  When at last he wrapped his hand around John, the warmth of John’s skin surprised him, and John let out a small cry from the back of his throat, and turned his head to press it into Sherlock’s shoulder as he came.

 

Sherlock slid his hand from John’s cock; there wasn’t much ejaculate – so little, in fact, he could wipe it all away with the corner of the blanket very easily, and he pulled John’s clothes back into some form of decency, before resting his arm over John’s stomach, keeping him tucked by his side.  John’s breathing had already slowed to a near-sleeping pattern.  He might have already _been_ asleep, or as good as. 

 

“You,” murmured John into Sherlock’s skin, and he lifted a hand as if he meant to do something with it.

 

“Later,” promised Sherlock, and settled his head on the pillow.  “Rest.”

 

John fell asleep, and Sherlock closed his eyes next to him, intending only a few minutes. 

 

When he woke half an hour later than he’d intended, he found he didn’t mind so very much.


	3. March (Barty is five months old)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting to you live from GridlockDC 2015. (Which is why this is one day late, but this one's nice and smutty so hopefully that makes up for it.)

It was cold and blustery and the crime scene was utterly soaked with the rain, black asphalt shining under the streetlights.  John’s coat was buttoned up tightly, but his cheeks and nose and ears were bright red with the chill.

 

“Here,” he’d said to the young omega, huddled under the shock blanket, and he handed her his hat and scarf and gloves.  “Put them on, you’ll feel warmer.”

 

The girl had hesitated, glancing between John and Sherlock, but Sherlock paid her little attention – splatter patterns in the rain-soaked night were too ephemeral for sentimental pauses – and John smiled encouragingly at her.  She took them, shyly, and pulled the knit hat low over her ears.

 

Which was why, half an hour later, when the initial on-site investigation was drawing to a close, and Sherlock was already thinking twenty steps ahead to what they’d need to do next, he saw that John’s head was bare, his hair wet and plastered to skin already glistening from the rain.

 

When he sneezed, Sherlock sighed loudly enough that the beat cops manning the tape line heard it.  He marched over to John, glaring.

 

“You’re an idiot.”

 

John sighed.

 

“She left in a perfectly warm ambulance not five minutes after you gave her your hat, John.  She didn’t need it.  You do.”

 

“She didn’t need the hat,” said John, stubborn.  “She needed the comfort.”

 

“You’re going to come down with the flu.”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“Go home,” snapped Sherlock.  “You’re no use to me if you’re sneezing over evidence.”

 

“I’m not—”

 

“You’re less use to Bartholomew if you get sick and your milk dries up.”

 

John froze.  And then he gave Sherlock a good long stare.  “Well.  At least someone might be happy, if I couldn’t feed Barty anymore.”

 

John spun around on his heel and left the crime scene without another word.  Sherlock watched him go, frowning, not entirely sure what John had meant by it – what did he mean, someone would be happy?  Bartholomew wouldn’t be happy, he hated bottles.  John wouldn’t be happy, he loved breastfeeding.  Sherlock wouldn’t be happy, John would be….

 

 

“Sherlock!” shouted Lestrade from the other side of the alley, and Sherlock watched as John’s form disappeared into the night before jogging back to the body behind the skip.

 

“All right?” asked Lestrade, eyes worried but tone… well, a bit on edge, really, but Sherlock was willing to overlook that.  It was only Lestrade, after all.

 

“Fine,” said Sherlock, and proceeded to tell him how the dead alpha was the same one responsible for three of the robberies along Saville Row in the last fortnight.

 

*

 

The flat was dark and quiet when Sherlock arrived at 221B.  He didn’t bother to turn on the lights; there was enough ambient light streaming in through the windows that he could see well enough to set the Chinese on the table before removing his coat and scarf. 

 

Emily and Bartholomew would have been long since asleep upstairs.  Jane would have gone back to her own flat once John arrived home, and John was certainly home, or she would have been on the couch taking a nap while she waited for them to return. 

 

The bedroom door was closed; Sherlock pushed it open.  The bedside lamp was on; John had fallen asleep with a book in his lap.  Sitting up reading, waiting for him, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow.  Sherlock frowned and closed the door again.

 

Sherlock was already halfway through the update on his blog (“Analysis of the base properties, scent, viscosity, and uses of 16 types of nappy ointment”) when he heard the bedroom door open again as John padded out. 

 

“Go back to bed, John,” said Sherlock, without looking up.

 

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep.  How’d it turn out?”

 

“A six at best,” said Sherlock, the disgust creeping in a bit.  

 

“Poor you.”   John didn’t sit so much as _collapse_ on the chair opposite Sherlock, straddling the chair and leaning his chin on the back.  Sherlock glanced up from his laptop.  John looked tired and a bit worn out, but his cheeks were no longer pink, and his ears looked as though they didn’t plan on developing frostbite anytime soon.  All the same – John ought to have been back in bed. 

 

“If you’re going to be awake, you should know there’s beef noodle soup in the fridge for you.”

 

John raised an eyebrow.

 

“You mean the spicy beef noodle soup from Monkey and Me?  The really good one with the carrots and bean sprouts and pearl onions?”

 

Sherlock didn’t answer; John was already up and at the fridge, pulling out the plastic container.  He smiled just a bit, listening to John putter around the kitchen, heating up the soup (which didn’t need much heating) before returning to the table and sitting in the chair properly.

 

The room was quiet as John ate the soup, slurping up the noodles, closing his eyes as he bit down on the pearl onions, reaching for a tissue every so often to blow his nose.  Sherlock kept half an eye on him, half an eye on the bowl of soup, which rapidly emptied, and once it was gone, John sat back with a sigh.

 

“Thanks.”

 

Sherlock barely nodded his head in acknowledgement.

 

“You didn’t get anything for yourself, did you?”

 

“Working,” replied Sherlock.

 

“On what?  I thought you solved it.  The Orderly Alpha, I thought we’d call it.”

 

“Honestly, John.”

 

“I’m sick, humor me.”

 

Sherlock snorted softly.  “You’re sick, you should be in bed.”

 

“I took a nap, I’m feeling a bit more awake now.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood up to pull a new set of slides from the fridge.  Almost without thinking of it, he grabbed John’s bowl on the way.

 

When he returned to the sitting room, John stared at him as if he’d grown a second head.

 

“Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?”

 

Sherlock didn’t bother to answer; he sat back down and proceeded to continue his study.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock adjusted the focus; the cells on his slide slid from fuzz to sharp lines, silent and still. 

 

“ _Sherlock_.”

 

“Tedious, John.”

 

“I’m tedious?”

 

“No, you wanting to analyze a container of beef noodle soup and why I purchased it for you is tedious.  You are not generally tedious, so you only need the occasional reminder when you veer in that direction.”

 

John’s sigh was audible.  Sherlock could practically hear him rub his face with his hand. 

 

“I don’t want to fight.”

 

“Then don’t fight.”

 

“You’re making it a bit difficult _not_ to when you act like….” 

 

Sherlock glanced up from the microscope in time to see John wave his hands in the air helplessly. 

 

“Like myself?” he supplied, and John let his head fall forward.

 

“I give up.  I’m going to bed.”

 

The cells on the slide were multiple shades of red, with pink and orange and tangerine.    Sherlock scratched his notes on his paper, measured the diameters and thickness, compared them to the earlier samples.  He switched them out with the samples he’d frozen, the samples he’d left on the windowsill, the samples he’d buried in the flower box (mustn’t tell Mrs Hudson, she’d worry about her flowers – not that there were flowers growing in March, of course, and viscera made for excellent fertilizer, but all the same). 

 

The flat was quiet by the time he came up for air.  It could have been hours later, or only minutes – Sherlock wasn’t sure. 

 

John was surely asleep.

 

Sherlock moved through the flat, putting away his slides and setting his microscope out of reach.  He turned out the lights and in the dark, padded to the bedroom to find John in bed, curled away from him.  His chest rose and fell in an even, steady pattern, and Sherlock’s mouth quirked.

 

“You’re still awake.”

 

John snorted.  “No, I’m not.”

 

Sherlock shucked his clothes and kicked them into the corner before crawling into the bed behind John.  He pressed his nose against the base of John’s neck and wrapped his arms around him, tucking his knees behind John, pulling John close, melting into John.

 

John made a sharp sound, but didn’t move away.  “Christ, you’re freezing.”

 

“No, I’m not.  You’ve got a fever.”

 

“No, you’re freezing.  Come here.”

 

John shifted and turned in Sherlock’s arms, until they were both holding each other, Sherlock tucked into John, the duvet settled over them both.  John was delightfully warm, and it made Sherlock shiver.  Perhaps John didn’t have a fever after all.  Perhaps the beef noodle soup had been unnecessary. 

 

“It’s not true,” said Sherlock into John’s breastbone.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“What you said at the crime scene before you left.  About me.”

 

John tightened his arms.  “Remind me.”

 

Sherlock moved his hand from John’s back, around to his chest, and cupped John’s chest with it, before gently flicking John’s nipple with his thumb.  His chest was still flat – male omegas didn’t really form breasts, so much – but the tissue was hard with milk, the nipples almost permanently hard, and as if to prove it, a small, pearly bead appeared where Sherlock’s thumb had been.  John went tense, all of a sudden, and sucked in a breath.

 

“I know how much this means to you.”

 

John’s throat worked hard in an attempt to swallow; when he spoke, his voice was deeper, huskier, which only made Sherlock’s insides twist all the more.  “Sherlock….”

 

“Shh,” said Sherlock, and moved his mouth to cover John’s nipple.  He exhaled on the skin there, warm, damp air, and felt John shudder in his arms, still tense.  He reached out his tongue, from where it’d been cowering in the back of his mouth, and scooped up the little pearly bead for a taste.

 

Sweet, thin, a bit like sawdust with plenty of sugar.  Not very good, to Sherlock’s mind, but Bartholomew seemed to like it above everything else.  Or maybe he just liked being so close to John, pressed up to John’s skin, listening to John’s heartbeat, and the food was incidental.  Perhaps his son was more like Sherlock than anyone cared to admit.

 

Sherlock kissed John’s nipple, gently, almost reverently, and then repeated the process with the other, before working his way up John’s chest, gentle kisses against the hard flesh, until he was nuzzling John’s neck, exposed and tight.  John’s breath came in heavy gasps; Sherlock kissed the sinews of John’s throat and listened to the rush of air.

 

Sherlock pulled himself up until his lips hovered over John’s.  “I can wait.”

 

“Like hell you can,” said John, his voice rough, deep cobblestones and fog.  He kissed Sherlock, pressed his dry lips to Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock closed his eyes, let John lead them as he licked the lingering taste of milk from his tongue.

 

“Sawdust,” grimaced John.

 

“Our son has questionable tastes in foodstuff.  I blame you.”

 

“Shut up, wanker, and stop bringing up our son in bed.”

 

John kissed him again, and Sherlock shut up.  The kisses were slow and sweet, long licks of tongue and gentle caresses with fingers, give and take, lazy and careful and content.  Sherlock pressed against John, and John rolled to his back, almost out of habit, holding Sherlock tightly.

 

“Oh,” said John, a rush of air more than a word.  “Sherlock—”

 

There was a spot on John’s neck, just below his ear where his jawbone ended, that was particularly delicious just then.  Sherlock didn’t want to be distracted by whatever John had just discovered.  “Mmm.”

 

“You’re hard.”

 

“Mmm.  No.”

 

“Let me—”  John’s hands started to move down, but Sherlock, annoyed that he had to abandon his project on John’s neck, grabbed his hands and lifted them above John’s head, pinning him to the mattress. 

 

“No,” said Sherlock, a bit more aggressively, and he went back to the bit of skin.  “It’s fine.  Don’t worry about it.”

 

“But….”

 

Sherlock kissed him, because unless he gave John’s mouth something to do, it was clear that John was going to nag him to death about it. John was distracted, then responsive with growing enthusiasm, and Sherlock was able to let go of his hands, run his fingers down John’s arms to his waist, until John was panting under him, his eyes crossed and glassy.

 

“God, I want you in me,” groaned John, his legs already beginning to spread. 

 

Sherlock smiled, and lifted himself up, so that his shirt trailed on John’s skin as he shifted himself down to between John’s legs.  He settled himself, watching John as he moved on the sheets, ran his fingers down from John’s stomach, past his hard and straining cock, and down the creases where his legs and torso met, to the soft, smooth bit of flesh behind his balls.  John let out a series of mewling cries before covering his mouth with his arm – conscious, as always, of the sleeping children upstairs.

 

“I can’t wait to hear you scream again,” said Sherlock mischievously, right before he lowered himself down and slid a finger inside his mate.  John was damp, but not slick, and he let out a shout that was only mostly muffled by his own skin.  Sherlock crooked his finger , ran it lightly against the walls inside John, and was pleased to see, judging by the way John was shifting down on the bed, his cries continuing, that he hadn’t forgotten quite what to do. 

 

Sherlock leaned forward, and gave John’s cock an open-mouthed, wet and hot kiss. 

 

“I love hearing the noises you make, when I’m in you.”

 

“Fuck,” whispered John.  “Oh, fuck fuck fuck fuck….”

 

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

 

“Yeah… Sherlock….”

 

“Don’t worry,” said Sherlock, and he slid a second finger in, just to hear John’s moan, to feel John grind himself down on his hand.  The pads of his fingers were rubbing soft circles on John’s prostate; his outer fingers cradling either side of John’s balls, tight with desire.   “I won’t give you anything you don’t want.”

 

“I….”

 

“Shhh,” whispered Sherlock, and pressed against the absolute center of John’s prostate, with just enough pressure that John let out a somewhat louder cry, just as Sherlock took his entire cock into his mouth, and sucked.

 

It didn’t take long.  John was too far gone – too many long weeks (months) since the last time they’d been able to make love in this way.  Sherlock kept up the assault, John’s legs around his torso, his body clenching and shivering and shuddering below him, until John came with a muffled shout, one hand in Sherlock’s curls, the other holding the pillow above his face. 

 

Sherlock gave him one last, gentle kiss, as he slipped his fingers out, which didn’t alleviate the discomfort, if John’s wince was anything to go by, but might have made it less jarring at least.  There were spit cloths on the bedside table, and a few bottles of water; Sherlock quickly wet a cloth down, and wiped John clean, before throwing the towel into the corner.

 

“Remind me not to use that one with Barty,” said John as Sherlock settled down next to him.  His eyes were closed; there was a wet imprint of a mouth on the pillow next to him, but Sherlock was too tired to grin.

 

“It’s cotton, John, it’ll wash clean.”

 

“That’s not the point.”

 

“You’ll have to explain it to me.”

 

John turned into him, eyes still closed, and settled his hand on Sherlock’s waist.  “You’re still wearing clothes.”

 

“Not all of them.”

 

John pressed closer, his leg over Sherlock’s and upwards.  Sherlock could feel John’s frown.  “And… _Sherlock_.  I thought….”

 

“It’s fine.”

 

“It’s _not_ fine, I thought you’d….”

 

“I didn’t.  It’s all right, it’ll go away.”

 

John’s eyes opened as he tried to pull away, but Sherlock pulled him back in.  “It’s _fine_ , John.  It’ll go down on its own.”

 

“But….”

 

Sherlock gritted his teeth.  “I’m not going to risk it.  So stop ruining the moment and go. To. Sleep.”

 

John settled back in.  The room was quiet, except for the static over the baby monitor. 

 

“I know it’s not true, you know.  What I said at the crime scene.”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes.  “Sleeping.”

 

John chuckled, not believing him.  “I know.”

 

 


	4. April (Barty is 6 months old)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We could probably have long discussions about when babies can start eating solid food and then what they’re supposed to be eating, but suffice to say that essentially, it’s all cultural and yes, as a British baby, Barty would be able to have carrots at six months old. (Even though my American baby food guidebook says seven months.)

Sherlock sat cross-legged on the floor, attempting to teach Bartholomew how to knock over a tower of blocks. 

 

It was not going well.  Barty was completely content with watching him stack the blocks, one after the other, and then would look at Sherlock patiently, clearly expecting that having already started the project, Sherlock would be more than willing to finish it.

 

“Don’t hold your breath,” John advised the baby.  “I feel the same way about him clearing the experiments off the kitchen table when it’s time for supper.”

 

“They’re _time-sensitive_ , John.”

 

“So’s supper, as it happens.”

 

The entire _day_ wasn’t going well, truth be told.  It had rained from sunup to sundown – a thick, grey, cloying sort of rain that persisted in penetrating the most water-tight items of clothing.  Emily had woken in a terrible mood and refused to change out of her pajamas for two hours, Barty was apparently transitioning to a two-nap day in addition to the constant and as of yet fruitless teething, and was therefore terribly cranky and chewing on everything in sight, and John had woken to find a sink full of soiled test tubes, which would take at least an hour to properly soak and clean.  He had stared at them for a long moment before leaving the entire mess and pointedly refusing to look at Sherlock.

 

Sherlock sighed and flicked at the tower with his finger; it collapsed with a _rocka-tokka-tokka-tok_ as the wooden blocks crashed into each other.  Barty’s mouth opened wide with surprise and joy, and he flapped his arms, fingers clenched in tight, excited fists.

 

“Chinese,” said Sherlock firmly.

 

“All the way to Kensington?”

 

Sherlock stood up, Barty in his arms.  “I’ll change Bartholomew, you collect Emily from Mrs Hudson’s.”

 

Bartholomew grabbed hold of Sherlock’s mouth, fingers curled around his lower lip, and hung tight while Sherlock bounded up the stairs.  Sherlock kept the door open, and heard John go down to knock on Mrs Hudson’s door, and the excited train of voices floating up the stairwell – Emily’s high-pitched prattle, not easily understood at a distance, and John’s lower, more careful response, clearly taking the time to enunciate each word properly.

 

(Emily had developed a bit of a lisp.  John was convinced it was due to the events of her third birthday; Sherlock thought it was more likely Emily’s attempt to compete with a new baby in the house.  After a bit of attention, it was mostly gone, though it did pop out when she was particularly excited or nervous or frightened.)

 

“Yes, of course you’re coming along.  Yes, Papa too.  Yes, Barty too.  No, I think we’d best leave Elfin at home.  You like Chinese, you like the dish with the string beans.  If you eat all your supper you can have dessert.  Well, if you don’t want dessert, you don’t have to have it.”

 

Sherlock smiled to himself, hearing the worry in Emily’s voice, and he understood it perfectly, even if he couldn’t quite make out the words.

 

“That’s you sorted,” he told his son, and hefted Bartholomew back into his arms.   Barty clung to his collar briefly before repositioning his hand back to Sherlock’s mouth.

 

“Sherlock?” called John up the stairwell.  “Everything all right?”

 

“Coming down now,” Sherlock called back as best as he was able with a small hand holding onto his lower lip.  He looked at Bartholomew.  “Your father has no faith in my parenting skills.”

 

Bartholomew chewed on his other hand, which was enough agreement for Sherlock’s purposes.

 

*

 

The children behaved beautifully, if one was willing to ignore Emily drawing on the tablecloth and not the paper provided, as well as Barty deciding it was necessary to stick his fingers in the bowl of sweet-and-sour sauce and then lick it off. 

 

“He appears to like it,” Sherlock observed while John tried to wash the mess off Barty’s hands. 

 

“I suppose it looks like carrots,” said John wryly as the waiter scurried over with a fresh glass of water to help clean up the mess.  “He likes carrots.”

 

“Sweet and sour sauce looks nothing like carrots, John.”

 

“I don’t like carrotth,” said Emily.

 

“Carrots,” said Sherlock automatically.

 

“I know, poppet.”  John grimaced at the soiled serviette.  “I forgot to put wet wipes in the nappy bag.”

 

“Unleth it’th in cake.  I like carrotth in cake,” said Emily, and then clamped her hands over her mouth.  Sherlock shot her a sharp glanced, and she slid down a little, chastised.

 

John, however, didn’t seem to notice as he dug in the nappy bag, probably for an overlooked wet wipe.  “Well, ask Mrs Hudson nicely, and perhaps she’ll make one for tea.”

 

Emily giggled, her hands still covering her mouth.

 

“Found one,” said John triumphantly, and started to wash Barty’s hands.

 

Sherlock let his mouth quirk up at Emily, who giggled again. 

 

John, typically oblivious, didn’t notice a thing.

 

*

 

Of course, the moment they stepped back into 221, the game was up, because John could hear the shuffling of feet in their flat above them, and Emily couldn’t contain the giggles anymore.

 

But being a good sport, he gave Sherlock a glance, and then tried to hide his smile.

 

“Hang your coat, Em,” he said, his voice suddenly cheerful, and helped her with her coat before she raced pell-mell up the stairs.

 

“You sly devil,” he said to Sherlock in a low voice.  “You didn’t delete it at all, did you?”

 

“John,” said Sherlock, feigning hurt.  “You act as though I delete _everything_.”

 

“You delete whether or not we need milk.”

 

“Yes, but that’s _milk_.”

 

When John opened the door to 221B, he managed to be very surprised at the room of people who stood ready to wish him happy birthday, complete with Emily jumping out from behind the chair, shouting “ _Thurprithe!_ ”

 

The cake, to no one’s surprise, was carrot, and Emily ate it without protest.

 

It was an excellent little party, though short.  Emily, powered by adrenaline, ran ragged circles around Lestrade and Mrs Hudson both before collapsing exhausted in her bed.  Barty fell asleep against John’s shoulder, clearly comfortable and happy, and John seemed to be content to hold him until the last guest had left, when he finally let Sherlock take the baby up to bed.

 

Emily normally roused herself a little whenever one of her fathers was in with Bartholomew; not tonight.  Sherlock settled Bartholomew to sleep, and then straightened the duvet over his daughter, before closing the door and heading back downstairs.

 

“She is entirely exhausted; typical crash after the initial rush of sugar,” said Sherlock as he returned to the sitting room, quite satisfied with how the evening had turned out, when he was attacked from the side by a pair of strong, jumper-covered arms, which pushed him to the wall quite forcefully and held him still.

 

“You,” growled John, but his eyes were bright with amusement, “are _terrible_.”

 

“I told Mrs Hudson you preferred fruitcake.”

 

John snorted.  “The only _fruitcake_ I like is the one I’m going to have right now.”

 

And John’s hands moved from Sherlock’s arms down to his trousers, where they began to very deftly and very skillfully unfasten the buckles and buttons and zips.

 

“Ah – John… that’s not a fruitcake.”

 

“You haven’t let me reciprocate,” complained John.

 

“It’s your _birthday_.”

 

“So shut up and let me give you my present already.”

 

“John, if you examine the particular circumstances, you’ll find,” said Sherlock, and then lost his train of thought as John shoved the trousers and boxers down his hips, exposing his half-hard prick to air.  John palmed him, cupping the palm of his hand around Sherlock’s still mostly deflated knot, and fingering his balls.  “Ah… that… you’re the one entitled to presents… today… oh, Christ.”

 

“Read up on your Tolkien,” was all John said as he slid down to his knees, his hand twisting to allow for the change in position.  He looked up at Sherlock through his fringe as his hand wrapped around Sherlock’s cock, already beginning to harden.  “You deleted Tolkien, didn’t you?”

 

“John.”  It was somewhat strangled.

 

“I thought you’d forgotten.  This morning, when I woke up and found the entire flat in complete disarray, and you off on one of your experiments.”

 

“It was….”  But Sherlock couldn’t speak properly; John’s face was nuzzling the crease between his hip and his torso now.  His skin was soft and cool, his hair tickled, and Sherlock had to choose between holding onto the wall for support, or pulling John up and kissing him senseless. 

 

John seemed to have a plan.  Sherlock held tight to the wall, his fingers wrapping around the doorframe.

 

“Not entirely unexpected, I’ll give you that.  But a happy birthday from Emily wouldn’t have gone amiss.”

 

“Next year,” gasped Sherlock as John’s fingers curled over the head of his cock.  “Work on that.  Terrible mate.”

 

“Dreadful,” agreed John, and then closed his mouth over the massive head of Sherlock’s cock.

 

Sherlock banged his other head against the wall and bit his lips hard in order to keep from screaming.  Instead, he made a loud, tight moan, which had the benefit of telling John exactly how he felt, and still didn’t wake the baby.

 

John chuckled, and the resulting vibration went through Sherlock’s cock, straight down to his balls.  It had been entirely too long since this part of Sherlock’s anatomy had received any attention; he wasn’t going to last very long. That time was considerably shortened when John began to suck gently – once, twice, and then a pause while he ran his tongue in a swirl over the head.  His fingers were working their way around Sherlock’s hips, until his thumbs pressed lightly against the knot at the base of Sherlock’s cock, and then wrapped around it to rub at the mound of flesh in the crooks of his thumb and forefinger.  It was tight in a similar way to actual love-making, as if Sherlock were popping in and out of John’s arse.

 

Sherlock couldn’t think.  Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure how he could _stand_.  Instead of the world being washed in red, as with a frenzy, his entire vision was washed in white, all colors in the flat drained away until the only thing worth noticing was John’s mouth on his cock, John’s hands on his knot, the heat of John’s mouth, the quick licks from John’s tongue.  Just John, John, _John_ , and Sherlock said his name, or tried to – not a sound left his lips, but his mouth formed the word.  _John John John_. 

 

And then he was coming, and it felt as if his entire body rushed out along his veins and arteries and capillaries straight through his cock, into John who was draining him dry – so much of it, John had to stop, turn his head and spit it out in order to keep breathing, in order that he wouldn’t be drowned.

 

Sherlock shook when it was over, and John held his hands to help him sit down on the cold floor.  He grinned at Sherlock, that self-satisfied smirk that usually made Sherlock want to deduce him straight into bed, but now Sherlock just wanted to wrap John up and tuck him into bed, close to his side, and maybe sleep for ages.  At least an hour.  Possibly two.

 

Sherlock reached out, and wiped the drop of glistening pearl-colored come from the edge of John’s mouth, and then let his arm fall to his side as he closed his eyes.

 

Orgasms, outside of heats, were _exhausting_.

 

“Well,” said John, sounding terribly pleased with himself.  “Happy birthday to _me_.”

 

“Indeed,” agreed Sherlock, slurring a bit.

 

“Oi, you, no falling asleep on the floor, I’m not carrying you to bed.”

 

“It _is_ your birthday,” said Sherlock, and fell asleep.

 

But not before he heard John say, somewhat crossly, “Oh, that’s just not _on_ ….”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blow jobs do not count as penetrative sex in this story. Because I say so.


	5. May (Barty is seven months old)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is clearly a week for favorite chapters. I _still_ can't believe I wrote what Sherlock and John get up to this month.

John lost the battle for bedtime the moment Emily saw the tiara.

 

“Ooooo,” she breathed, eyes going wide, body going still with a mixture of amazement and toddler lust.  “It’s _beautiful_.”

 

“Let’s try it on,” suggested Grandmother Aurora, and Sherlock saw the dismay on John’s face, the desperate desire to call out and remind them that Emily could only attend the party for _one hour_ before bedtime, and the realization that any hope of dragging Emily away from a party where she could wear her new tiara was about as realistic as the paste gems that adorned it.

 

“She’s going to be horrible in the morning,” said John, watching his daughter and mother-in-law giggle in front of the mirror in the foyer of the Holmes estate.

 

“She’s young,” said Sherlock.

 

John’s look was not amused.  “As it happens, so are you.  When she wakes up grumpy in the morning, _you_ can handle her.”

 

John walked by Sherlock, toward the stairs leading to their rooms upstairs.  He dropped a kiss on Emily’s tiara-ed head and Aurora’s cheek, murmuring a, “Very nice,” before taking Barty up.

 

Sherlock eyed his daughter and mother, and decided that if Emily woke at an obnoxious hour in an obnoxious mood, he would simply throw her in her grandmother’s room and be done with it.

 

*

 

The party was… tolerable, at best.  Sherlock despised his birthday, endured the children’s, and allowed Mrs Hudson free reign with John’s, because it was easier and John enjoyed the fuss.  His mother’s birthday, even a significant one, was unlikely to give him much pause.

 

“You could at least look as if you’re _attempting_ to enjoy yourself,” said Mycroft, holding a flute of champagne in one hand, and pocketing his mobile with the other.

 

“And deprive the guests the pleasures of being able to moan about what a horribly ungrateful son I am?  Never,” said Sherlock.  He stole Mycroft’s champagne flute and drained it in one go.  “Where’s the lovely Emma?”

 

“Norway, if you must know.  That _was_ my champagne.”

 

“You hate champagne.  I was doing you a favor.”

 

“Then you won’t mind if I return it by giving your daughter a slice of cake.”

 

“What, another?”

 

Mycroft smiled thinly at him.  “Where’s John?”

 

“Putting Bartholomew to bed.  Bit young for cake.”

 

“And parties.”

 

Sherlock shrugged.  “Mummy insisted.  She wanted him to attend a little bit of it, she said.”

 

“In case she isn’t around for another,” finished Mycroft, darkly repeating their mother’s favorite phrase as he took another flute of champagne from a passing waiter.  “Ridiculous, she’s healthier than either of us.”

 

“They don’t help, you know,” said Sherlock, eyeing the champagne.  “Holding the champagne to keep yourself from sampling the other things on offer.”

 

“Emily won’t fall asleep until eleven,” said Mycroft smugly, and left Sherlock to his brooding.

 

It was another half hour before John reappeared at the party.  Emily had increased her slice-of-cake consumption to three (one from Aurora, one from Mycroft, and the rest was random bits and pieces offered by various guests who thought she was adorable and believed this was reason to torture her parents).  She was currently spinning like a top in the garden, where Aurora had set up a dance floor and a band, playing songs that Sherlock didn’t know and didn’t care to know, but the rest of the guests seemed to find perfectly acceptable for dancing.  Emily, at least, approved, and was having a grand time. 

 

Sherlock stood in the doorway, half in and half out of the house, watching Emily dance, while looking over his shoulder every so often, hoping to see John.  In the end, he missed John’s entrance entirely, watching Emily dance terrible pirouettes under the tutelage of the neighboring Earl.

 

“He’s asleep,” said John, and Sherlock glanced over briefly, before turning back to watch Emily.  “Jane’s sitting up nearby, but you can’t hear a thing in that room, so I think he’ll be down for the count.”

 

“I had no doubt.”

 

John huffed quietly, and watched Emily on the dance floor.  “How much cake did she have?”

 

“No idea,” lied Sherlock.

 

“Holmesian for ‘Whatever the Answer, Don’t Tell John’,” sighed John.  “We could _try_ to put her down.”  John didn’t sound very confident.

 

Which was when Sherlock spotted Mycroft on the far side of the dance floor, carrying his flute of champagne… and yet another slice of cake.

 

“Come along, John,” said Sherlock briskly, and took John’s hand to tug him away from the door and into the crush of people where they might not have such a good view of the dance floor.

 

“What?  Sherlock, where are you taking me?”

 

“Bartholomew is with Jane, Emily has Mycroft wrapped about her fingers, and my mother sees and knows all.  We’re going on a walk.”

 

“A walk.”

 

“Yes.”  Sherlock held John’s hand tightly, weaving through the guests and avoiding anyone who might try to detain them.

 

“It’s your mum’s birthday party, Sherlock, we can’t just _ditch_ it.”

 

“We’re not ‘ditching it’, to use your pedestrian turn of phrase.  We’re not even going to leave the grounds.”  Ah, there, the guests were growing thinner, the lights didn’t shine quite as brightly, the music on the dance floor was growing fainter.  John was even able to walk next to him now.

 

“Funny, I thought leaving a party you’re expected to attend would fall into that category,” said John, but he didn’t sound upset; just a bit amused.

 

“The only thing anyone ever expects from me at a social function is that I’ll try to ruin it for everyone else.  Believe me, they aren’t going to miss me.”

 

“Mr Holmes,” said John, “is this your way of trying to distract me from the cake Mycroft was taking to Emily?”

 

“Honestly, John, the nonsense that comes out of your mouth.”

 

John squeezed his fingers and chuckled.  The grass crunched under their feet as they walked further and further into the dimly lit grounds, and soon the sound of crickets loud enough to compete with the strains of music. 

 

It was pleasant, out here in the grounds, with the crickets for company, and the party far behind them.  Sherlock threaded his fingers in John’s, the comfortable warmth of them in his hand, the way their tuxedo coats brushed together in the cool evening air.  The moon was just bright enough, and the ambient light from the house was thrown far enough, that Sherlock could just make out the lines of John’s tux – the wide cut of the lapel, silk shining a bit brighter in the night.  The delicate folds of his shirt, creamy white without a waistcoat to shadow it. 

 

John’s finger squeezed Sherlock’s hand.  “Over a year since I’ve walked out on the grounds.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Walked clear across them, through the trees, to reach Greg’s car, so he could drive me to Heathrow.”

 

Sherlock frowned.  “Heathrow?”

 

“To find you, idiot.”  John stopped walking; they were very near the pond now.  “You’re not even listening.”

 

“No,” said Sherlock, and kissed him, his hand on the back of John’s neck.  John’s mouth tasted like champagne and sugar, and Sherlock breathed in deeply, smelled the baby powder scent of Bartholomew.  “My mother loves parties.  She’ll throw them for any old reason.  I’d have to attend, dressed in my finest, and be pleasant to all of her incredibly tedious and stupid guests.”

 

“Poor you,” said John, his voice a bit breathy, but still amused.

 

Sherlock leaned in, and began to suckle the skin just below John’s ear.  “I hated them.”

 

“Of course you did.”  John’s fingers were tight on Sherlock’s arms – not holding him in, but not pushing him away, either. 

 

“I refused to attend, and she told me I was clever enough to find a way to entertain myself.  I suggested cocaine; she suggested sex.”

 

“Typical Alpha,” said John, with a laugh.

 

“Do you know, John,” said Sherlock, and he licked a trail down John’s throat.  John’s head fell back to allow him access.  “I think my mother might have had the better suggestion.”

 

“You don’t say.”

 

“I _do_.”  Sherlock began sucking small circles onto John’s neck, while his hands worked their way to John’s trouser fly.  “You don’t object.”

 

“Do I have a choice?” gasped John, as Sherlock’s fingers brushed over his already hardening cock.

 

“Well,” said Sherlock, “I could always set fire to the curtains.”

 

“In that case, sex.  I choose sex.”

 

“I thought you’d say that,” said Sherlock, pleased, and as soon as the buckles and zips were free, slipped his hand into John’s pants, to take the warm cock in his cool hand.  John let out a hiss and buried his face into Sherlock’s coat. 

 

“Oh, Christ.”  He giggled weakly.  “Someone’s going to see us.”

 

“No,” said Sherlock, almost a growl, and John groaned and turned his face up to catch Sherlock in a kiss.  His fingers dug deep into Sherlock’s coat, which was too thick to feel them properly, and Sherlock tried to wiggle the coat off his shoulders without also removing his hand from John’s pants.

 

“Prat,” said John, fondly, and helped him take off the coat.  He was about to let it drop, when he paused, and spread it out on the ground instead, silk lining face-up. 

 

“Clever John,” said Sherlock.

 

“Gonna ruin it.”

 

“Like I care.  On your knees.”

 

John’s eyes widened.  “Sherlock—”

 

Sherlock wrapped his fingers around John’s prick again, and gave it a gentle, stroking squeeze.  John’s eyes fluttered closed, and Sherlock eased his way down with a deep kiss, stroking the insides of John’s mouth with his tongue, tasting the sugar crystals still embedded in John’s molars.  By the time John was on his knees, he was making small cries in the back of his throat, and Sherlock turned worked at his pants until they were down past his hips.

 

“The party….”

 

“Shh, John,” soothed Sherlock, as he stroked John’s cock with gentle fingers.  He barely touched the velvet-soft skin, but John was still shuddering next to him.  “Do you really think anyone would actually come looking for _me_ , to drag me back to a party I don’t want to attend?”

 

John’s mouth fell open, and Sherlock kissed the lips, one by one, pulling John’s lower lip into his mouth and worrying it with his teeth before letting it go with a pop.

 

“If Emily….”

 

“Emily loves cake more than either of us at the moment,” said Sherlock, and he kissed John’s neck, from his ear to the top of his shirt collar.  “She spends entirely too much time with Mycroft.”

 

“She loves him.”

 

Sherlock pulled back and stared at John in horror.  “I arrange for a romantic liaison by the pond, and this is how you repay me?”

 

John chuckled, and leaned closer to whisper in Sherlock’s ear.  “He might even make a _politician_ out of her one day.”

Enough. Sherlock put his hands firmly on John’s hips, and twisted him around sideways, before pushing down on his shoulders so that John’s bare arse was up in the air.  Caught off guard, John barely made any sign of protest, except for a befuddled _oooff_ as he went down.  Sherlock ran his hands under John’s dress shirt, against his skin along his spine, and then dragged the fingertips down to cup the round buttocks, before carefully sliding his thumbs into the crack and spreading them apart.

 

“Sherlock!”

 

Sherlock didn’t answer; not with words, anyway.  Instead, he leaned in, and pressed a kiss to the base of John’s spine, while his hands made lazy kneading motions, his thumbs brushing up against John’s hole, which was already flexing, tight and anxious.

 

“Oh, fuck,” sighed John, and his head fell forward onto his hands, clenched on the silk of Sherlock’s coat. 

 

“Not tonight,” promised Sherlock, and he licked his thumbs, sucking them into his mouth to coat them liberally with his saliva, before letting first one, then the other, press against the tight pucker of John’s entrance, back and forth in a see-saw motion, while he feathered kisses over the small of John’s back, the tops of his buttocks, anywhere he could reach.  John was murmuring under him, his muscles quivering and shaking with the effort to stay up – or at up as he could manage in his odd position, trousers still wrapped around his knees, jacket now bunched around his chest. 

 

And then, when Sherlock felt the muscles start to relax, just a little, he swooped down, and added his tongue into the odd dance of his thumbs: the sugar sweet taste of champagne mixing with the heady taste of _John_ , and he heard John cry out, somewhere in the distance.

 

Sounds carried at night – but for Sherlock, they all fell away.  The crickets went quiet for a moment.  The music in the distance seemed to pause in expectation.  All Sherlock could hear was John’s _fuck fuck fuck_ under his breath, his ragged breathing, the pounding of his heart in his ears.  He licked up and down and in and out, curling his tongue around his thumbs, still damp with spit, as John shuddered and shook and let out little gasping cries in between the curses that seemed to beg him for what he couldn’t give.

 

“ _Fuck_ , Sherlock, Sher… I… _fuck_ … I’m going….”

 

“Yes,” whispered Sherlock, almost aching himself, but not quite.  He was only half hard, mostly from knowing how much John needed him, needed _this_ , needed _more_ , and more was exactly enough, really.  He pressed his cheek against one side of John’s buttocks to hold it back, and slid his hand around to John’s cock, hard and hot and heavy, and that was all it really took – just the one touch, a moment to wrap his fingers around John before John cried out and came, the flat of Sherlock’s tongue against him.

 

Sherlock pressed a kiss against John, still trembling, his muscles in spasms, before carefully reaching down to pull up his trousers.  He didn’t fasten them, but instead let them cover his mate, before lowering John to his side on the now rather soiled coat.

 

“I ruined your coat,” mumbled John, as Sherlock spooned him from behind.

 

“Thank you,” said Sherlock.  “It gives me an excuse to miss the rest of the party.”

 

John giggled, and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s, which were already wrapped around John.  Somewhere in the distance, the crickets and the band were making noise again.  Sherlock listened to the music for a moment, before deciding he preferred the crickets.

 

Especially when John started _humming_.

 

“John.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“You’re _humming_.”

 

“I can’t remember the name of the song,” said John.  “Benny Goodman?  Duke Ellington?  Da, da-da-da, da-da-da, da-da-da, da-da-da-daaaahhhhh.”

 

“Oh, God, now you’re _singing_.”

 

“No words to sing,” said John cheerfully, exactly as if he had just had a fantastic orgasm in rather different circumstances and was feeling completely in love with the world and had no inhibitions about anything left.  “Doooo, do-do-dooooo….”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes and went on a mad hunt through his mind palace.  “If I tell you the name, will you _stop_?”

 

“Maybe.  Da-da-da, da-da-da, da-daaaa, da-daaaaa, da-daaaaaaaa.”

 

“Moonlight Serenade,” gasped Sherlock, as if he’d run the entire length of his mind to get it.  “Glenn Miller.  American beta.  For the love of _God_ , John.”

 

John chuckled, and held Sherlock’s arms closer to his torso.  “All right, you git, I’ll stop.”  He shifted on the ground with a grunt.  “That was….”

 

“Ridiculous, I know,” sighed Sherlock.

 

“I wasn’t going to say that.”

 

“Of course you were.”

 

“Sherlock, we left your mother’s birthday party to have a shag by the pond in the backyard, and I can see the lights and hear the music and God knows _who_ might have been able to see us if they’d been looking in the right direction.”

 

“No one ever looks in the right direction.”

 

John shook his head.  “Impossible, you are.”

 

Sherlock tucked his head into the back of John’s neck, and felt John’s contented sigh.  The music continued in the distance, along with the occasional burst of laughter and the twitting sound of conversation.  The crickets and frogs and other noises from the pond and the woods beyond, the twinkling stars overhead shining on the still water… it was pleasant, as far as white-noise-backgrounds went. 

 

And then John began to tense up, and Sherlock held him tighter, somehow knowing what John was going to say.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“Please don’t.”

 

“I just want to know—”

 

“You act as though I insisted on intercourse every moment before I… left.  I do not mind abstaining now, John, particularly for such a noble reason.”

 

“He’s seven months old, he’s been eating solids for a whole month now.”

 

“Not exclusively.”

 

“No, but enough that he’s already starting to drink less.  It wouldn’t be the end of the world—”

 

“No.”

 

John chuckled, but there wasn’t much humor in it.  “You know, four months ago, you were the one trying to convince me that we could bottle-feed him.”

 

“I never—”

 

“All right, I was a little off the deep end at the start, but—”

 

“You needed it,” said Sherlock firmly.   “After the birth, the weeks in hospital – you needed to feed him as much as he needed to be fed.  You still do.”

 

“No, I don’t—”

 

_“Yes_ ,” repeated Sherlock, and was almost grateful to hear the sound of footsteps falling on the gravel path leading down to the pond.

 

“Christ, fuck,” muttered John, wriggling and trying to zip and button and hook and fasten all the various closures on his tuxedo pants.  “Why do these have to be so bloody _difficult_.”

 

“I can wait,” said Mycroft, a bit disdainfully.  “I apologize for interrupting your… sojourn, gentlemen—”

 

“Oh, I’m sure, brother dear,” said Sherlock, trying to be sullen about it, mostly because it was what Mycroft would expect. 

 

“Hmm,” said Mycroft, no doubt catching that Sherlock was perhaps not as ungrateful for the interruption as he sounded.  “John, your presence has been requested.  It seems Emily has… taken ill.”

 

“Ill?” John sat up like a shot.  “What do you mean, _ill_?”  John pushed himself to his feet, scrambling a little on the gravel.  “Where is she?  What happened?”

 

Sherlock stared at Mycroft before rolling his eyes.  “Calm yourself, John.  Mycroft has merely discovered what happens when one feeds a four-year-old four slices of cake and then spins them rapidly in a circle.”

 

“Yes, thank you,” said Mycroft dryly, and without a bit of guilt.

 

John stared at Mycroft for a moment.  “Four slices of cake?” he said finally.  “ _Four_?”

 

“I was only responsible for two,” said Mycroft. 

 

“Where is she?”

 

“With Mummy in the kitchen.”

 

John nodded briskly, and turned to Sherlock.  “We’re not done with this conversation.”

 

“Nooooo,” said Sherlock, lying on his back, and he listened to John go up the gravel walk, no doubt attempting to straighten his shirt and perhaps run his fingers through his hair in an effort to pretend that he hadn’t just been rimmed by the pond during his mother-in-law’s birthday party.

 

“Honestly, Sherlock,” said Mycroft.  “I would offer to help you up, but… well….”

 

“Who’s alarmed by sex now, Mycroft?”  Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and picked up his coat.  He gave it a shake before attempting to examine it in the dim light.  “Ruined, I think.”

 

Mycroft sighed behind him.

 

“Never did like it.  But now it holds such fond memories.”

 

“For God’s sake,” said Mycroft, utterly exasperated, and he turned on his heel and headed back up to the house.

 

Sherlock considered donning the coat, and then thought better of it.  There was thumbing his nose at his mother’s friends… and then there was just being foolhardy.  His shirt, after all, was still perfectly pressed. Instead, he folded the coat over his arm, and followed his brother, with a spring in his step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Moonlight Serenade](https://youtu.be/_X8sz_wgrSc), played by the Glenn Miller orchestra.


	6. June (Barty is 8 months old)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might be a little tame, compared to last month's PDA... but hey. I write what I can.

The door opened, letting a thick ray of sunshine into the dark room.  Sherlock kept his eyes closed, one arm flung over his head, the other… well, the other had been brushing John’s back, last Sherlock could remember, but now the other side of the bed was empty. 

 

Red glow through his eyelids; morning.  Perhaps near seven, judging from the level of the light, and the fact that John was awake and dressed, if the sound of his shoes as he shifted on the floor had anything to do with it.  And there, the small patter of bare feet – yes, certainly no later than half past, even on a Sunday.

 

The mattress dipped, first down by his feet, and then as someone small crept upward, over the lines of his legs.  Sherlock kept perfectly still – this was part of the game, of course.  He managed to keep silent and still, despite the knee too close to his groin, the small hand placed directly on Sherlock’s stomach which made him nearly lose his breath. 

 

And then the interloper paused, directly on his chest as she straddled him and began to play with his face, pushing his cheeks together and then pulling them apart, fiddling with his hair and poking her fingers in his ears. 

 

“Papa!  Wake up!”

 

“Certainly not,” said Sherlock, and heard John shift by the doorway, undoubtedly to watch them, before he moved back into the kitchen.  Bloody traitorous bastard.

 

“ _Papa_.  Wake _up_ ,” insisted Emily, and he felt her touch his nose, probably with her own, judging how close her breaths sounded.  “It’s Alpha’s Day, you have to wake up so I can give you your present.”

 

“I thought I’d sleep through it this year.”

 

“Papa!”

 

“Is my gift a tie?”

 

Emily let out a peal of laughter.  “No!”

 

“Is it a new set of test tubes?”

 

“No!”

 

“Is it something you created in school that I shall need to display on the mantel?”

 

“Yes!”

 

“Then I’m _definitely_ sleeping through it this year.”

 

Emily shifted down and gave him a tight squeeze around his ribcage.  “Papa, wake up!  _Wake up_!”

 

Footsteps; John again, this time straight into the bedroom, along with the gurgling giggles of Bartholomew. 

 

“Here you go,” said John cheerfully, and the baby was on the mattress beside him, happily climbing up Sherlock’s shoulders to rest his hands on Sherlock’s nose and forehead.

 

“Mrph,” said Sherlock.

 

“I’ll be back with tea,” said John, and left the room again.

 

It was almost pleasant, lying in bed with the two children wriggling in all directions.  Emily had let go of his torso, and was bouncing lightly beside him, while Barty crawled over his chest in an effort to reach her.  The mattress swayed in a way that wasn’t entirely reminiscent of being on a ship; Sherlock kept his eyes closed, on hand on Barty to ensure he didn’t topple over the side of the bed, and was able to doze just a bit longer, listening to Emily chatter and giggle and talk nonsense to Barty about the names of everything in the room.

 

“You have to wake up eventually,” said John when he returned with the tea.  Mug, of course – the good china had long since been banished to the highest shelf in the kitchen, where small hands couldn’t break it.  Emily was old enough to be trusted with it, of course, but Barty was not.  Another few years, and he’d bring it down, no matter what John said.  It was only china.  Broken teacups didn’t bother Sherlock.  And he’d used china since he was Emily’s age; better that she learn how to use it early and thus be less likely to forget later on.

 

“No,” said Sherlock, but it was muffled by Barty’s foot.  He reached up to move the foot, and then continued.  “It’s my day.  I can stay in bed if I like.”

 

“Well, that _would_ be a shame, since… oh, never mind.  It’s _your_ day after all, you spend it how you like.”

 

Sherlock frowned, opened his eyes, and sat straight up, tumbling Barty to his lap.  The baby giggled, delighted.

 

“You have something planned.”

 

But John had already walked back into the kitchen.  “Do I?” he called over his shoulder.

 

“Come back here, I can’t deduce you when you’re in the other room!”

 

“Slipping!”

 

Sherlock glared at the empty doorway, and then turned to Emily, who was busily pulling the pillows under the blankets – pillow fort, Sherlock decided.

 

“Emily, what does your father have planned for today?”

 

“I’m not allowed to tell you,” said Emily.

 

“I’ll help you make the microwave explode.”

 

Emily bit her lip, and then shook her head.  “If I tell you, then we can’t go.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened before he nodded.  “The pirate ship?”

 

Emily rolled her eyes.  “ _Papa_.  Barty’s going to fall off the bed.”

 

Sherlock lunged and caught Barty just as the baby was about to tumble from where he was peering over the edge of the bed.  “John!  I am drastically outnumbered!”

 

“Tea’s ready!” was the only response, and Sherlock glanced down before looking at Emily, sitting primly on her stack of pillows.

 

“Close your eyes and don’t peek,” he cautioned her, and when she covered her eyes with her arms, he slipped out of the bed and pulled on the nearest set of pajama bottoms and tee-shirt he could find.

 

“Come along, Emily.  Breakfast,” he said, scooping up Barty, and Emily, arms still over her head, began scooting off the bed.

 

“You don’t eat breakfast.”

 

“I drink tea.”

 

“That’s not breakfast, that’s _tea_.  Ow.  Papa, I ran into the door!”

 

“You _can_ open your eyes,” said Sherlock. 

 

“You didn’t _say_.”

 

John had set the table with tea and toast and eggs.  Emily scrambled up into her seat and lunged for the toast and jam.

 

“Are all four-year-olds so literal?” Sherlock asked John.

 

“I’d imagine all four-year-olds fathered by you are,” said John dryly as he reached for Barty.  “Banana and egg for you, young man.”

 

“I thought we were on asparagus.”

 

“Yes, because watching our son develop a food allergy is how I would want to spend _my_ special day,” said John, and then paused as he set Barty into his high chair.  “Well.  It _is_ you.”

 

“I don’t like asparagus,” announced Emily.  “And neither does Barty.”

 

“Bartholomew,” Sherlock corrected her.

 

“I like toast,” said Emily.  “With jam.  _Strawberry_ jam.”

 

“You say these things as if I view Bartholomew’s digestive track as an experiment,” Sherlock told John, who was beginning to spoon bits of mashed banana in the direction of Barty’s mouth.  Barty seemed much more interested in trying to grab the spoon than eating what was on it.

 

“You _do_ view Barty’s digestive track as an experiment.  You have an entire notebook that is nothing but his eating habits, times, amounts, and preparation of food.  Every time I give him something new, you can’t stop watching him for a solid day.  I think if he did actually develop an allergy or at the very least, an intolerance, you’d….”  John pursed his lips.

 

Sherlock paused as he lifted up his teacup.  “I’d what?  Delay medical assistance to watch how it developed?”

 

“Well,” said John, a bit sheepish now, “maybe if it was hives.  I’m pretty sure you’d help if he stopped breathing.”

 

“ _Pretty sure_ ,” said Sherlock darkly.

 

Barty successfully grabbed the spoon, and managed to shove it into his mouth.  Some of the banana even made it with the spoon; the rest dribbled down the bib John had tied around him.

 

“95%,” clarified John, watching Barty as he went for more banana.  “The other five percent thinks you’d be in a nervous panic.”

 

Somehow, thought Sherlock, this was better.  Though he wasn’t entirely sure _why_.

 

“I’m allergic to asparagus,” said Emily, and accidentally knocked over her milk.

 

*

 

It was a perfectly lovely Sunday in June: bright blue skies, a few wisps of clouds, a cool breeze to temper the warm sun.  When John not-so-innocently suggested a walk after breakfast, Emily burst into giggles and ran upstairs to dress.  Sherlock stared intently at John, who refused to look back at him, and instead busied himself with the dishes.

 

“You could leave those for Mrs Hudson.”

 

“Who really isn’t our housekeeper, you know.  And you should get dressed if you want to come with us.”

 

“As if you’d leave me here to my own devices, when this is _clearly_ part of whatever surprise you and Emily have cooked up.”

 

It was rather incredible that washing just a few breakfast things could possibly make so much noise.  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said John, barely understandable over the spray of the water and the clatter of the dishes.  “Light colors, mind.  Do you even _own_ light colors?”

 

“No,” said Sherlock, and went to shower and dress.

 

It took some time for the children to be ready; Sherlock rotated between tapping his foot impatiently, trying to fix Emily’s curly and stubborn hair into the pigtails she preferred, and rescuing Barty any time he came too close to the stairs.  When Emily announced the need for the potty for the third time, Sherlock thought longingly of the days when he would just _go_ , and trust that John was directly behind him, and no need to check the baby bag for extra nappies, or fix one’s hair into even pigtails, or ensure there were suitable snacks ready for immediate dispersal.

 

“Come on, then,” said John cheerily, breaking Sherlock out of his reverie.  He jogged down the stairs, almost exactly like the old days, except for the baby in his arms, who giggled and flapped his arms, clearly pleased with the bouncing gait.  Emily slipped her hand into Sherlock’s and tugged on his arm.

 

“Papa, let’s _go_ ,” she chided, and Sherlock followed them down the stairs, waited while John strapped Barty into his pushchair, held the door patiently while John wrangled the chair out onto the pavement, waited while Emily fixed her shoe, waited while Mrs Hudson caught them to wish them a happy Alpha’s Day.

 

“Yes, thank you,” said Sherlock, impatient to be off.

 

Mrs Hudson raised her eyes at his rudeness, and glanced pointedly at Emily, who was watching them with great fascination.

 

“I _said_ thank you,” added Sherlock. 

 

“Semantics, not sentiment,” said John.  “Ta, Mrs Hudson.  We’ll be home for tea.”

 

“Have a lovely time, dears,” said Mrs Hudson, and waved them off.

 

It was a matter of minutes before they were in Regent’s Park; another few minutes before they were well within its grounds, on a walking path that led them far enough away from the perimeter that the sounds of London faded into the background.  There were plenty of families walking here and there, setting out on picnics in the grass, clearly settling in for a long day in the sunshine.  Alphas stretched out on blankets, shoes kicked off to the side; omegas slathering children with sun lotion, laying out games and toys and umbrellas for shade.  Coolers with drinks and eats for later, near on lunchtime. 

 

Sherlock glanced at John curiously.  He wasn’t carrying a basket of food, or an umbrella.  The basket under Barty’s pushchair was empty except for the ubiquitous nappy bag, and a blanket in case of cool weather. 

 

“A walk,” Sherlock said.

 

“Yes.”

 

“ _Just_ a walk.”

 

“Well,” said John, eyes on Emily who had run a ways ahead.  “Not _just_ a walk.”

 

“Was there a murder?”

 

John laughed.  “With Emily and Barty in attendance?”

 

“Someday they’ll want to come along, you know.”

 

“And someday pigs will fly.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes brightened.  “Now that you mention it, there _was_ a case, before I met you—”

 

John laughed and turned into Queen Mary’s Garden.  “Come on, we’re almost there.”

 

“John, these are all perfectly tame flowers, not a poisonous one in the lot.  I’ve checked.”

 

“Of course you did.”

 

Sherlock was about to start lecturing on the properties of _asclepias curassavica_ , when he saw that Emily was some twenty feet ahead, talking to an older man, tall and thin and towering over her, leaning in to listen intently to whatever Emily was trying to tell him.  For a moment, Sherlock’s alpha senses went on high alert: _protect, protect, protect_ , somewhere in the back of his mind, and Sherlock might have run straight over to them to pull Emily away, when he felt something warm and comforting on his arm hold him back.

 

John, who was calm and careful and did not appear to be in any distress over Emily whatsoever.

 

“You’re growling,” said John, amused.

 

Sherlock could feel the growl in his chest.  “I am not.”

 

John ignored the obvious lie.  “She’s all right.  I’ll introduce you.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Well,” said John, “I thought you’d want to meet the Regent’s Park beekeeper.  Particularly since he’s going to introduce you to his bees.”

 

Sherlock stopped walking, and turned to stare at John.  John grinned back at him, eyes bright, not the least big smug or pleased with his cleverness.  In fact, he just looked… happy.

 

“There’s half a shelf of books on bees and beekeeping at home,” said John.  “I _do_ pay attention more than you give me credit for, you know.”

 

John’s eyes crinkled a little as he looked at Sherlock – probably looking in the sun, Sherlock thought, and saw every silvery hair light up on John’s head, every laugh line along his eyes and around his mouth.  He smiled brightly and fully at Sherlock, as he had spent the entire day anticipating this exact moment when he finally unveiled his surprise.

 

Sherlock had given gifts before; he’d never been particularly good at it.  Worse, he knew it, and came to expect that the gifts he considered to be appropriate never really were.   Gifts were given with trepidation and a thin layer of confidence thrown over it to hide the fact that he never expected them to be received well.

 

John, on the other hand, clearly knew what he was doing – and knew Sherlock well enough that there was no doubt he would like to meet the bees.

 

“Well, go on,” said John.  “We’ll find a nice spot to sit and wait for you and Emily to finish up.”

 

“Emily?”

 

John nodded.  “She wanted to meet the bees as well – I hope you don’t mind?  I thought – maybe a nice thing for you to do together today.”

 

And there it was – the small nugget of doubt, so tiny that Sherlock would have missed it if he hadn’t already been looking at John to see the change in his eyes, the line of his jaw, the slight hesitance in his voice.  Certain that _Sherlock_ would like to see the bees – uncertain if he’d want the company while doing it.

 

Sherlock couldn’t stop himself.  He swooped down, and kissed John, pressing his lips to John’s, settling his hands on John’s head to hold him steady.  Public displays of affection be damned; he was going to kiss John Watson right here in the middle of the gardens and no one was going to stop him.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said into John’s mouth, more breath than speech, and kissed him again.  John tasted of mint and tea and relief as he leaned into Sherlock’s body, briefly.

 

When Sherlock pulled back, John’s smile was relaxed again.  “Off you go, or we’ll be arrested for public indecency.”

 

“Lestrade’s dream come true,” said Sherlock, and kissed him once more for good measure, before going to join Emily and the beekeeper.

 

*

 

The lesson lasted well over an hour, and Emily clutched her small jar of honey in her hands as they walked back from the lodge to where John and Barty were camped out under a tree.  Emily skipped a short ways, before remembering the glass jar in her hands, and she’d walk carefully until she forgot the jar and began to skip once more.

 

Sherlock watched her jump high in the air with every skip, and knew it was from joy, and didn’t reprimand her.  They could always get more honey – perhaps not _this_ honey, but Emily’s joy was better to see.  Besides, he would have skipped with her, if he hadn’t been acutely aware of the second, slightly larger jar that he had in his own hands.

 

John had parked the pushchair under a tree, and was lying on his back, shoes and socks off and toes wiggling in the sun while the rest of him was under the shade.  Barty had his music box, and was hitting the buttons at random intervals, starting and stopping the instruments as they played a selection from Mozart’s _The Magic Flute_.  Behind them, a picnic basket waited for someone to open it.

 

“Daddy!” squealed Emily, and she fell to her knees beside him.  John opened his eyes and smiled at her.  “Look!  It’s honey, we harvested it ourselves, and three bees landed on me and they didn’t sting, and Mr Mason said they were giving me kisses and he said the bees like me and Papa was stung _twice_.”

 

John raised his eyebrows and looked at Sherlock.  “Twice?” he asked, sounding amused.

 

Sherlock didn’t want to talk about it; the stings didn’t really hurt anymore, anyway.  Not if he didn’t think about them.  “Mrs Hudson,” said Sherlock, looking at the picnic basket.

 

“Of course.  Couldn’t bring it with us, it’d ruin the surprise.”  John sat up and took the jar from Emily.  He held it up to the light to peer through.  “It looks delicious.  Do you want some now, or should we save it for tea?”

 

“Tea,” said Emily.  “ _And_ now.”

 

John obediently opened the jar, and Emily stuck in her pinkie finger, scooping up a bit to stick in her mouth. 

 

“Mmmm,” said Emily, closing her eyes and smiling around her finger. 

 

Lunch was chicken sandwiches, with carrots and celery and crisps, a few fresh salads and bottles of lemonade.  There were some scones and pastries wrapped in wax paper, and a container of apples, sliced and ready to dip into the honey Sherlock and Emily had harvested.  Barty tried to get his fingers into the golden, sticky stuff, and was thwarted every time by one father or another, and he finally burst into tears when the denials became too much to bear.

 

“All right, you,” said John, and pulled the nursing blanket out of the bottom of the pushchair, and settled it over the two of them to give Barty a feed.

 

“Ridiculous contraption,” said Sherlock, eyeing it.  “Society demands you breastfeed, but will not allow you to do so publicly.”

 

“Maybe I’d rather just keep it private and not put us on display,” said John, peering through the netting to Barty.  Emily was up on her feet and running back to the flowers, likely to collect them into a posy for Mrs Hudson.  Sherlock kept half an eye on her as she wandered through the flower beds.

 

John shifted Barty under the blanket, and leaned against the tree.  It was hardly the most comfortable of places to nurse, but he looked content enough.  The gardens were quiet, and strangely enough, their corner of it was relatively empty, considering the number of people who had laid out blankets on the greens beyond it.  Sherlock watched Emily’s dark pigtails bounce between the flower beds – the only part of her he could see, really – and thought he saw a trail of bees follow her from bush to bush.

 

“He said the bees don’t like alphas.”

 

John didn’t move, but Sherlock thought his eyes might have darted to glance at him.  “Who said?  The beekeeper?”

 

“Mr Mason, yes.  They prefer omegas or betas.  Even an alpha who means them no harm is still a threat.”

 

“Ah.”  John shifted Barty again.  “That why the bees bit you?”

 

“Stung.  And yes.”

 

John continued to shift; Barty had gone still – asleep, Sherlock surmised, and he turned to help transfer him to his pushchair, slung low so that he could continue his nap in peace.  There was an extra blanket underneath; Sherlock busied himself with draping it over the chair to give Barty some privacy, while John fixed his shirt and removed the nursing blanket.

 

“They didn’t sting Emily.”

 

“No.  They didn’t.”

 

Sherlock finished with the blanket and settled back down on the ground.  Emily’s pigtails continued to bounce in the distance; John sat next to Sherlock, pressed lightly against his side.

 

“So Emily might be….”

 

“It’s an inexact science,” said Sherlock.  “Akin to Mrs Hudson dangling that bit of metal over your stomach when you were pregnant with Bartholomew.”

 

“She did say he was a boy, though.”

 

“John.”

 

“All right, she had a fifty-fifty chance of it.  I’d still probably give more credit to the bees.”

 

Sherlock rubbed his arm absently.  The stings were a dull ache now, and the beekeeper had recommended a bit of paracetamol to relieve the swelling and the pain, but it wasn’t as bad as anything Sherlock had felt before. 

 

Emily had giggled when the bees landed on her; Sherlock, already stung once, had nearly panicked in his effort to shoo them away, and only received a second sting for his efforts.  Emily had worried over him, and kissed the sting to make it better, and said the bees felt like tickling.

 

“Do you mind?” asked John.  “If she’s not an alpha like you?”

 

Sherlock snorted.  “The last thing I’d want is for Emily to be an alpha like me.  Look at what I’ve done; I’m hardly a good example to set for either of them.”

 

John shoved him a little.  “Don’t.  You’re fine.”

 

“John.  I left you alone and pregnant.  _Twice_.”

 

“Well,” said John, sounding immensely practical and logical.  “It’s not as if you knew it the second time.”

 

“ _John_.”

 

John’s mouth was on his before Sherlock could even finish saying his name, his body pressing Sherlock’s back to the blanket, covering him under the shade of the tree.  It was an intense kiss, John’s mouth pressing into Sherlock’s, his body holding him down, while his hands worked their way into Sherlock’s hair, threading themselves through and pressing lightly with stroking motions.  All meant to soothe and subdue and hush, and Sherlock gave into it almost immediately, unable to fathom a rational response against the assault on his body.

 

 “Shut up,” said John, pulling back enough to speak.  “Just… shut up about the not being good enough.  You’re more than good enough.  You’re _perfect_.  You think I want an alpha who’s going to coddle me and hover over me, never trust me to make the right decisions for my kids?  Fuck that, Sherlock.  Emily and Bart love you and _I_ love you and out of all the alphas in the world, you’re the one we want and if the bees don’t like it, then hang ‘em all.”

 

And all Sherlock had time to say was _John_ before he was kissing him again.

 

It was a very nice assault; kissing John, the taste of honey and apples still on his lips, with the sound of the breeze and the birds in the tree trees above.  The cool shade with the bright sun peeking through the leaves, and the faint scent of the garden.  As John’s kisses began to slow, Sherlock gradually reasserted control, pushing up into him.  One of John’s hands moved down to Sherlock’s, and they twined their fingers together, as the kisses slowed into soft presses of lips, light suckles, coupled with the soft moans and murmured at the back of their throats.

 

Sherlock felt perfectly at peace, earlier worries shelved for the moment.  Instead, there was John, who was being rather demanding, and Sherlock didn’t mind one bit.  Especially as the kisses turned needy once again, with tell-tale hardness against their thighs.  Sherlock’s pulse quickened as John’s body pressed into him with an increasingly rhythmic pace. 

 

“Daddy!”

 

John froze above him, pulling away with a look of shock in his eyes.  Forgotten where he was too, thought Sherlock, as John rolled off him and sat up, pulling up his knees in a desperate bid to hide his erection.  “Emily!” he said, his voice an odd mix of cheerful and strained. 

 

Emily, completely oblivious, sat down on the blanket next to them with a plop.  She handed the oversized bunch of flowers to John.  “I picked you flowers!”

 

“They’re lovely, Em.”  John held the posy up to his nose. 

 

“Rather lot of flowers,” said Sherlock.  “I hope you left some for the bees.”

 

“Mr Mason helped,” said Emily.

 

“That’s all right, then.”

 

“He said we should put them in water and they’ll last until the end of the week.”

 

“Optimistic of him.”

 

“Then we should do that,” said John, and he moved to start packing up the lunch things.  “Here, Emily, help me with the dishes.”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes and listened to the pleasant sounds of John and Emily cleaning up their lunch, packing it away in the picnic basket (Mrs Hudson’s, at least thirty years old, wedding present, seldom used except for bringing various goodies to her knitting circle or book club).  After a few minutes, there was a tap on his shoulder.

 

“Sherlock,” said John.  “We need to fold up the blanket and go home now.”

 

Sherlock opened his eyes to see John smiling at him.  Emily flopped herself down on Sherlock’s chest with a hug.

 

“Papa, did you like your surprise?”

 

Sherlock rested his hand on top of her curls.  Her head was so small, he could wrap his fingers around her skull, and it fit perfectly. 

 

“Very much,” he told her.  “The best.”

 

Emily’s smile was wide and bright, and Sherlock almost forgave her terrible timing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a matter of fact, there is a bee-keeper in Regent's Park, and he's even named Mr. Mason. (Though he prefers the term "bee farmer".) Sherlock wouldn't really have to go very far to have a first-hand look at apiology!


	7. July (Barty is Nine Months Old)

“What have you got there?”  John reached for the chain around Emily’s neck and frowned.  “Emily, were you rooting around in my drawers again?”

 

“Nooooo,” said Emily.  “Barty was.”

 

“Barty can barely pull himself to standing.”

 

“I helped!”

 

“Mmm.”

 

“Can I keep them?  I like the way they clink together.”

 

“All right. Don’t lose them, though, or it’s jankers for the next month for you.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Not a lot of fun for you, and mashed potatoes for dinner.”

 

Which was how, when Sherlock returned from the labs at St Bart’s, he found Emily wearing John’s dog tags, uniform hat, and a pair of oversized boots, directing various dolls and stuffed animals to peel the potatoes faster.

 

Sherlock watched her for a moment, frowning, and then was startled when John’s voice boomed through the flat.

 

“Private Emily – _atteeeeeeennnnnnshun!_ ”

 

Emily sprang to her feet and nearly fell over in her enthusiasm to stand straight up.  Or perhaps it was the giggles that nearly knocked her over – either way, she managed to stay upright, the grin threatening to take over her face.  “Sir yes sir!” she shouted, before turning to see Sherlock and grinning even wider.

 

“All privates are required to wash their hands and use the loo before tea – forward, _march_!”

 

Emily began marching in place for a moment before actually moving forward.  It was more of a skip than a march, but Sherlock doubted she’d end up with extra pushups for it.  She marched past him, clip-clop, into the kitchen, and Sherlock stepped further in to watch her go, and thus caught a glimpse of John as he marched along with Emily.

 

John, who had seemed to take the dress-up game to heart, was now wearing his Army fatigues – the brown camouflage pants tucked into combat boots, the shirt unbuttoned and open to reveal the off-white, sleeveless vest that was skin-tight to his skin.  The muscles under the shirt, chest a bit soft from child-bearing and nursing, but the stomach was as taut and trim as Sherlock remembered from their very earliest days together: no evidence of baby fat left to him. 

 

Sherlock swallowed, and glanced at Barty, sitting in his high chair, John’s military beret on his head.  Barty looked back, and grinned at him, showing off all four teeth.  Sherlock had the distinct impression that Barty knew exactly what his father was thinking, and thought it absolutely hysterical.

 

Sherlock looked back at John.  Gorgeous, lovely, incredibly alluring, military and untouchable John.

 

“Don’t forget the soap,” John told Emily, before turning back to the kitchen.  “Oh, hello, didn’t know you were home yet.”

 

“I—”  Sherlock couldn’t continue.  He kept staring at John’s arms, chest, stomach, groin, legs, neck, ears, armpits, hands….

 

“Hungry?  No, of course not.”

 

Yes, thought Sherlock, and food had nothing to do with it.

 

“I think there’s enough water for two teas.  Emily, remember to flush!”

 

“I _did_.”

 

“No, you didn’t.”  John peered at Sherlock.  “You all right?  You look a bit pale.”

 

Sherlock nodded, and watched as John leaned over to dig around in one of the lower cupboards.  The position pulled his trousers against his posterior, outlining and defining it quite clearly.

 

John, it would seem, was all commando.

 

Sherlock sat down before Emily came in and was inadvertently introduced to a few facts of life.  The table provided adequate cover.

 

Barty, watching everything, pulled the beret off his head and began to mouth the leather edging.

 

“Sherlock, can you rescue my hat?”

 

“Hmm?  Oh.  Yes.  Bartholomew.  No.”

 

Barty let out a disappointed cry as Sherlock took the beret away, and Sherlock offered him a finger instead, which Barty began to knaw, still sulking.

 

Sherlock didn’t even mind the teeth.  For one thing, it kept his mind of other stiff parts of his anatomy.

 

“Papa!” cried Emily as she skidded back into the kitchen.  “Daddy and I are playing soldiers.  He taught me how to stand at attention.”

 

“That’s very nice,” said Sherlock, acutely aware of things standing to attention.

 

“She found my dog tags,” explained John as he set the tea things on the table.  “Em, sit and drink your milk.”

 

“Do you want to play soldiers, too?” asked Emily.

 

Oh, very much, yes, thank you, thought Sherlock.

 

“I suspect Papa has work to do,” said John.

 

“Maybe later,” said Sherlock, and pointedly did not look at John.

 

*

 

John breathed a sigh of relief as he collapsed on his chair.  “Barty’s asleep,” he said, kicking off his shoes and setting his feet up on Sherlock’s armchair.  “Em didn’t even blink when I went in there – I think it was all that marching after tea.  Christ, my feet hurt.  I think my combat boots have shrunk.”

 

“Mmm,” said Sherlock, as he picked up John’s feet, one by one, and settled them on his lap.  He carefully pulled off John’s socks, rolling them down from the top before sliding them off his feet. 

 

“And don’t even say it: my feet did _not_ swell up with the kids, all my other shoes still fit.”

 

“Mmm.”  Sherlock started stroking John’s feet with firm strokes, running his thumb into the arches with careful pressure.

 

“Oh, Christ, that feels good,” groaned John, throwing his head back. 

 

Sherlock’s mouth quirked up, just a bit, and he worked his fingers between John’s toes.

 

“D’you mind?  That she seems fascinated by the Army?  Sherlock?”

 

“Like father, like daughter, I suppose.”

 

“Well, she doesn’t have an aptitude for doctoring, it’d be nice to think she takes after me in _some_ way.”

 

“I wasn’t referring to you, John.”

 

John opened his eyes to look at Sherlock quizzically.  “You?  Fascinated by the Army?”

 

Sherlock moved John’s feet to either side, and pushed up from the chair.  Two steps, and he was leaning over John, a predatory look in his eyes.  Without breaking eye contact, Sherlock reached under his shirt and pulled out John’s dog tags, last seen on Emily several hours before. 

 

John stared at the tags, eyes wide, before glancing up to Sherlock, wondering when the hell he’d managed to get them away from their daughter.  The question died as soon as he saw the expression on Sherlock’s face, thick and dark with desire. 

 

“Go on,” said Sherlock softly.

 

“Those are my tags,” whispered John.

 

“I’ll just give them back to you, shall I?” said Sherlock, and he pulled the tags over his head, and carefully put them over John’s.  They rested against his shirt, strangely out of place against the slightly wrinkled fabric, the buttons lined up in a row.  Sherlock slowly began unbuttoning them, one by one, while John’s fingers dug into the fabric the chair.

 

“I came home, and there you were,” began Sherlock, “standing there in the kitchen in your fatigues.  I’ve never seen you in uniform, John.  I’ve seen you take on its trappings, salute and stand to attention.  I’ve seen you bark orders to others when you needed something to happen, when you needed it to happen for _me_.”

 

The shirt was unbuttoned now; Sherlock ran his hands down John’s chest, feather-soft and careful.  He fingers skimmed over the tight muscles of John’s stomach, the soft give of his chest, the muscles that were desperately still despite the way his breathing was becoming shallow and quick as John helplessly watched Sherlock undress him.

 

Sherlock leaned in close, his lips against John’s neck.  Sherlock’s hair fluttered against John’s face; he could smell the sharp scent of Sherlock’s shampoo, the warmth of a London summer and the antiseptic of Bart’s laboratories. 

 

“Your eyes were shining, you know.  You were incredible, standing there in your fatigues, and all I wanted to do was take them off you so I could fuck you into the mattress.”

 

“Oh,” said John, breath coming out in a rush. 

 

Sherlock unfastened John’s trousers.  “Would you have minded?”

 

John swallowed.  “Well… Emily was there.”

 

Sherlock’s hand went still.  All of Sherlock went still, and then he pulled up and into John’s line of sight again.  “John,” he said, strained, and the look on his face made John burst into giggles.  “You could at least _try_ to be in the moment here.”

 

“Oh, right,” said John, and he tried desperately to pull himself together.  “Yes.  Absolutely.  Strip my uniform off on the spot and fuck me into the kitchen floor… _soldier_.”

 

The word seemed to do the trick: Sherlock’s breath caught and he caught John’s mouth up in a kiss, his hands now scrambling to undo buttons and unzip zips and shimmy himself out of his clothes, such as they were, with John’s hands attempting to help, but only getting in the way.  John’s tags clinked together as John shifted this way and that under Sherlock, as he twisted while Sherlock pushed John’s shirt off his shoulders.  He lifted his hips for Sherlock to pull down his pants and trousers, and slid far down the chair, so that he was nearly lying on it, his arse just at the edge.  The dog tags slid up his chest to pool at the base of his neck.  When Sherlock came back up, he went straight for them, kissing the skin and somehow scooping the thin metal discs into his mouth, before settling them back down, wet with saliva, onto John’s chest.

 

When Sherlock kissed John again, he tasted slightly metallic, and John might have whined deep in his throat.  Or perhaps it was because Sherlock pressed their cocks together, wrapped his long fingers around them both and squeezed gently, and then with increasing pressure, his mouth on John’s neck, sweet small kisses along the line of the chain.

 

The chair was soft but in John’s head, they were still on the hard kitchen floor, the way that Sherlock would have covered him there, one arm wrapped around the leg of a chair, the other hand thrown out, against the cupboard.  Sherlock would have been fucking him hard enough to scoot him across the linoleum; John would have needed to brace himself, his legs up in the air, perhaps around Sherlock’s shoulders – _fuck_ , yes, around Sherlock’s shoulders, and John pulled his own legs up, widening them to give Sherlock more room, and heard Sherlock’s breath catch and swear in response.  Sherlock bucked against him, his hand working furiously, pulling and rubbing and twisting his thumb over them both at the top, catching the precum and running it down their shafts. 

 

And it wasn’t enough for John – it wasn’t even _close_ to enough.  His cock felt fantastic; _he_ felt fantastic, but already he could feel the empty loneliness starting to build – the remembered pleasure of having Sherlock inside him, fucking him from the center of his core and making every nerve ending in his entire body _sing_.  There was nothing like being truly _fucked_ , the way John’s body was meant to be fucked, and being pulled off – no matter how good – wasn’t anything like it.  It was only half an orgasm, and in that moment, thinking of how Sherlock might have fucked him on the kitchen floor: whatever they were doing on the chair was a distant second best.

 

Sherlock cried out, thrust against John, and this, combined with the memory of the denied orgasm, was enough.  John came in a quiet gasp, face screwed up and hands on Sherlock’s arms.  Sherlock’s hand was loose around their cocks; John reached down and wrapped his fingers around them both to give them a few last pulls before either of them were too sensitive to continue comfortably. 

 

Sherlock held himself still, and then wedged himself between John and the side of the chair, still breathing heavily.  He reached up and rested his fingers on John’s tags.

 

“Didn’t expect that,” said John, and covered Sherlock’s hand with his own.  He thought of the strange, in-the-moment desire for _more_ , and buried it deep.  It wasn’t time for that yet, no matter how much he wanted it. 

 

“Nor did I.  Thank God Emily didn’t try to climb into my lap at tea.”

 

John began to giggle, the tension falling away.  “You’re a bad, bad man.”

 

“Yes,” agreed Sherlock, and kissed John’s shoulder.  “This is the most uncomfortable position I have ever been in.”

 

“Then get off me, you great git, and we’ll move somewhere else.”

 

“I don’t think I can; my trousers are wrapped around my knees.”

 

“Christ, do I have to dress everyone in this house?” grumbled John.

 

“John, please don’t make any comment that could be interpreted as you needing to dress Mrs Hudson.”

 

John laughed softly, and pressed his lips against the line of Sherlock’s hair.  “Get _up_ , you git.  And don’t fall over or she’ll be up here wondering what we’re doing.”

 

“I wouldn’t think we’d need to explain it,” said Sherlock loftily, but he moved, and kicked his trousers off the rest of the way.


	8. August (Barty is 10 months old)

It was hot, ridiculously so, and every window in the flat was open wide.  Mrs Hudson and John had sourced every fan in the entire city, and Mrs Hudson had even taken the extra step of setting bowls of ice in front of each, which was helpful if one was sitting directly next to them, but didn’t do much to actually cool down the flat.

 

Both children were asleep on the couch cushions placed on the floor.  Barty had spent the day cruising around the flat, holding tight to whatever piece of furniture was available to stay upright, wearing only his nappy.  Emily wasn’t wearing much more: a skirt and a thin tee-shirt proclaiming her allegiance to Liverpool Football Club – clearly a present from Uncle Greg.  She snuggled Elfin close – no amount of heat was too much to cuddle the plush animal.

 

“It’s too hot upstairs,” said John firmly, when Sherlock had protested allowing them to sleep in the sitting room.  John had been testy all day; the heat, among other things that Sherlock hadn’t been able to deduce, mostly because he’d spent a majority of the day solving a series of ridiculous cases in his email – ridiculous, but well-paid, which merited some sort of effort, however minimal.

 

“They won’t sleep well,” said Sherlock.

 

“You’re just worried you’ll trip over them.”

 

“All right, _I_ won’t sleep well.”

 

“You don’t sleep.”

 

Ridiculous.  _Everything_ was ridiculous.  He slept.  Sometimes.

 

Not now, though, not when the flat was a sauna, and the children were resting fitfully on couch cushions in the sitting room, with every window open wide to catch any hint of a breeze – as well as the sounds of London not sleeping.  Cars and buses and lorries, the horns and engines, the laughter from the after-hours groups from the pubs down the street. 

 

Somehow, the children slept through it all.  John, next to Sherlock on their bed, wearing only his boxers and the bedsheet twisted around his legs, slept, though not well.  He shifted, his arms above his head, then by his sides.  He flipped from side to back to front to side.  He frowned, grimaced, mouth open, mouth closed, eyes moving rapidly below closed lids.

 

Sherlock watched him in the dim light, and waited for the murmurs, somehow knowing they were coming.

 

They did: first soft, under his breath, the base of his throat, and then louder groans, along with the twitching in his suddenly stationary limbs.  As if he were being held down – as if he were trying to move to wake himself up, but couldn’t—

 

“John.”

 

John turned away, and then rolled back to him.  His breathing stopped for a moment, and Sherlock’s heart stopped with it. 

 

“John!” 

 

Sherlock touched John’s arm lightly, but it was enough.  John’s eyes sprung open.  His breathing started up again with a gasp, and then in heavy, shallow gulps of air.  For a moment, John’s eyes flashed around the room, before he let out a whoosh of air, and seemed to sink into the mattress as he held his hands over his face.

 

“Fuck,” he muttered, muffled by his hands. 

 

Sherlock waited, his hand still on John’s arm.  John breathed, working hard to calm himself down, tense and alert.

 

“Did I—?”

 

“They’re asleep,” Sherlock reassured him.  “I woke you before you started shouting.”

 

“Good.”  A few more breaths; John was clearly counting them out.  “Christ.  I haven’t dreamed about Afghanistan in….”

 

“It’s the heat,” said Sherlock.

 

John huffed.  “Yeah.  Maybe.”  He breathed again, two long sighs, and ran his hands through his hair and under his head, staring up at the ceiling.  Sherlock’s hand slipped to John’s chest.  Sherlock opened his fingers and rested his palm on John’s skin, feeling John’s heart racing beneath the bones.  “They’re going out again.”

 

Ah, there it was.  “Your unit.”

 

John was silent for a moment.  “If my life had gone a different way – I’d be going with them.”

 

Sherlock breathed for a moment.  “Is that what you want?”

 

“I’m not entirely sure it’s what I ever wanted, honestly.” 

 

“It’s not outside the realm of possibility, John.  I warned Mycroft that you might try to re-enlist after my suicide, so that you could return to Afghanistan.”

 

John snorted lightly.  “So he could put a wrench in that plan and keep me here where it’s nice and safe?”

 

“No,” said Sherlock.  “So he could smooth the way – and keep you as safe as you wanted to be.”

 

John rolled to his side and looked at Sherlock.  Sherlock shifted, matching John’s position, and wrapped his fingers around John’s forearm, not quite willing to let go of him just yet.  “What makes you think I would have wanted that?”

 

“You did before.”

 

John studied him for a moment.  “You mean when Mary died.”

 

Sherlock shrugged.  “The situations were—”

 

“Not the least bit similar, and don’t even try to deny it.  Mary didn’t kill herself.  It was a stupid, pointless accident.  _You_ , on the other hand, went out in the most dramatic fashion possible.”

 

“Mary’s death was senseless, I agree.  As was your attempt to forget her by going to whatever front line would take you.  But you would have seen my suicide as equally senseless.”

 

“I _did_ see it that way, you berk.”

 

“Hence my reasoning.”

 

John shook his head.  “I couldn’t have gone to Afghanistan anyway.  Not pregnant with Emily.”

 

“Well,” said Sherlock.  “I spoke to Mycroft about various contingencies involving you before I knew about Emily.”

 

John’s mouth quirked.  He breathed steadily, but Sherlock could still feel his pulse racing under his fingers. 

 

“I might have gone,” said John finally.  “If not for Emily.  Eventually, I might have hated London without you so much that I would have had to leave.  And I would have realized Mycroft was meddling, and I would have confronted him, and I probably would have figured out why.”

 

Sherlock scoffed lightly.  “No one’s that clever, John.”

 

“I am,” said John, and he smiled and leaned forward to kiss Sherlock lightly.  “I would have started to wonder.  It’s not that you wanted me _safe,_ necessarily.  You were never the possessive sort of alpha.  But you’ve never much cared for the idea that I’d run straight into danger.  Which would have made me start thinking about your motivations.”

 

Sherlock was only half listening.  John smelled like salt-water sweat, like warm skin and sunshine and tea and cotton, and something sweeter under all of that, cinnamon-sugar musk that was all his.  His skin was warm and dry and pressed up against Sherlock, he felt exactly right.

 

“John—”

 

John shifted on the bed, so that Sherlock was draped over him, but he kept talking as if Sherlock weren’t running his hands up and down his skin, leaving light butterfly suckling kisses along his neck. 

 

“See, I think it’s about making sure I was happy.  Happy, and busy, and maybe just reckless enough that when you reappeared, I’d forgive you for leaving me in the first place.”

 

Sherlock rested his head on John’s, and breathed, too afraid to think about what John had surmised, and try to determine if he was right or not.

 

“See, the thing about reckless,” said John, his hands running up Sherlock’s arms, almost as if he were trying to soothe him, “is it’s always more fun when you’re with me.”

 

Sherlock saw John’s eyes in the brief moment before they kissed; the wideness of them, the openness, the smile evident at the corners.  It was equally evident in the way John moved beneath him, the way he cupped his hands around Sherlock’s shoulders, and the back of his head, holding him in, kissing with his entire body and not just his mouth.  Sherlock wanted to drown in John; the way John kissed him, lazy and eager all at once, made him think John might let him. 

 

And then it accelerated – the quiet, reassuring kisses became something more.  A moan, a touch against sensitive skin, Sherlock’s fingers in John’s hair, John’s leg wrapping around Sherlock’s.  Their sweat-soaked skin, already acclimated to the heat in the little dark room, sliding against each other easily, as they moved in tandem.  John’s breath grew heavier as his head moved back to expose his neck; Sherlock latched onto the skin near the old bond bite, his heart thrumming, and he could feel the pull of their bond, as if John were reeling him in.  He could not have let John go if he’d wanted to – and dear God, he didn’t want to.  Not then, not ever.

 

The thin sheet that had covered them was gone – Sherlock could have sworn that John had worn boxers to bed, but those were gone, too.  All he could feel was the wiry hairs around John’s cock rubbing against him; the exposed, humid air on his buttocks.  John’s legs fell open, without any sort of prompting; John’s hands on his back, urging him on.  John’s gasps, _oh, oh, oh, God, yes, God, Sherlock, please_ ….

 

His cock, rock-hard and aching and Sherlock couldn’t see in the dark little room, red outlines at the edge of his vision and his brain was buzzing and he could smell John’s sweat, could feel John’s heartbeat in his touch, would find him and slide home and….

 

Into John.

 

 _Fuck_.

 

Sherlock rolled off in one swift move, onto his back and kept rolling until he’d rolled straight off the bed, where he fell onto his hands and knees on the floor with a thump.  His skin felt clammy and cold where it had been pressed up against John; his cock, hanging between his knees, was aching and red, quivering as if angry.

 

“Fuck,” said John from the bed, almost a sob, and Sherlock heard the mattress creak as John rolled on it.  “Sherlock—”

 

“Just… give me a minute,” said Sherlock to the floor.

 

John’s breathing continued, labored and heavy, a run of _fucks_ and _shites_ and a few other select phrases.  Sherlock didn’t try to catalogue them.

 

Mycroft naked.  Mycroft naked in a bathtub.  Mycroft naked in a bathtub with Anthea/Emma/whatever her name of choice was that week.  Mycroft naked in a bathtub with Emma/Anthea with Mrs Hudson offering tea, and Lestrade in the background with a triple murder and a few locked doors. 

 

The red slowly faded away, and as it did, Sherlock became aware of the silence from the bed.  From John.

 

“I’m all right,” said Sherlock, and he slid down to the floor the rest of the way, let his forehead rest on the cool wood.

 

“Sherlock—”  Near – almost above him, as if John were there on the edge of the bed, close enough to touch him, close enough to pull him back up, close enough to kiss him, to start it all up again….

 

“Two more months,” said Sherlock to the floor.  “We’ll discuss it in two more months.”

 

John was quiet for a few long moments.  “Right,” he said finally, and the mattress shifted again, as John moved away, back to his own side of the bed, back to safety.

 

“Two more months,” he echoed, and Sherlock waited until he was sure John had fallen asleep before he climbed back up onto the bed again.

 


	9. September (Barty is 11 months old)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize that I forgot to post last month's chapter. If it's any consolation, I also forgot that my son was 11 months old until he'd been 11 months old for two days.
> 
> On the plus side, I did not leave anyone hanging on the end of this chapter for a full month, and I think when you get to the end of the chapter, you will see why that is a good thing.

The day hadn’t started well. Barty woke so early it was still dark outside, and when John rose to get him, he stepped directly onto one of Emily’s small doll shoes, sending shooting pain up the leg that still felt inclined to limp on odd days.  Emily demanded to wear a specific green dress that no one could locate before finally relenting and wearing a blue one, but she remained in a massive sulk through breakfast.  John broke three egg yolks in his attempt to make breakfast; Emily dropped her milk and broke the glass; Barty tumbled into the table and knocked over Sherlock’s experiment on alcohol-soaked fabrics. 

It was really a terrible morning.  And it wasn’t even a clinic morning, which was a shame because John desperately wanted to get out of the flat.  Not just because now it reeked of alcohol, but because Sherlock didn’t seem terribly inclined to emerge from the three-day run of “bored” that happened whenever Lestrade didn’t have a case going on.

“Come on, Em, school,” said John briskly, ten minutes too early.

Emily sat in the center of a circle made up of every single one of her dolls.  She’d been setting them up like that every day for two weeks; John hadn’t yet determined why, though he had no doubt Sherlock had deduced it immediately.  Sherlock wasn’t inclined to share; John was too riled up to ask. 

“I’m not done yet,” said Emily.

“Save it for this afternoon.  School’s waiting.”

“It’s ten minutes early,” said Sherlock from the sofa, where he was already laid out, hands steepled under his chin.

“We’re taking a longer route,” said John stubbornly.  “Let’s go, Emily.  Chivvy up.”

“I’m not _done_ yet.”

“Then you have one minute to finish, or I’ll put the dolls away and they’ll stay there until tomorrow.”

Emily’s eyes widened in shock, and she lifted her chin up into the air.  She set down her doll and rose to her feet, and walked past both of her fathers to the stairs as if she were a martyr marching to the lions.

“Can you please air out the flat before I’m back?” John asked Sherlock – and didn’t wait for a reply.

He didn’t want to hear it, anyway. 

*

The walk to and from nursery would have been more pleasant if the weather hadn’t been lightly misting.  John had forgotten his hat, Emily’s shoes were damp, and by the time they arrived at school, she was sniffling quite fiercely.  As a temporary attempt at solace, John stopped into a Pret on the way home for tea; they were out of his preferred type of sugar and he burned his tongue.

The flat was freezing cold when he arrived home, but at least Barty was bundled up, and it no longer reeked of alcohol.

However, there was a pile of dishes stacked in the sink so high, that John knew he’d have to remove half of them to even get started on cleaning up.

Sherlock was no longer on the couch; instead he was sitting on the floor, reading to Barty, who didn’t seem to mind the extra layers one bit.  John left him to it, and started in on the kitchen.

It was early afternoon when salvation came in the form of a call from Lestrade.  John heard the ring as he put Barty down for his afternoon nap, and breathed out a sigh of relief.

“Thank Christ,” he said to the sleepy baby.  “I need to be out of this flat in the worst way.”

Barty yawned and batted his hand toward John, as if to remind him that talking during naps was not allowed.

John jogged down to the sitting room with a spring in his step, and found Sherlock already in the bedroom, getting dressed.

“There’s a case,” he said jovially.  “Serial murderer, or start of one – second victim found this morning and Lestrade’s convinced it’s connected to a victim a month ago, possibly more though he doesn’t know for certain.”

“Your favorite,” said John.  “Jane’s already picking up Emily at nursery; I can ask Mrs Hudson to sit with Barty until they return.”

Sherlock stopped midstride, startled.  “I… ah… yes.  Yes.  Good idea, John.”

John rolled his eyes.  “You’d forgotten about them again, hadn’t you?”

Sherlock looked highly affronted.  “I never forget,” he said haughtily.  “I just… don’t remember.”

“Right,” said John, and he went downstairs to find Mrs Hudson. 

“Oh, that’s nice,” said Mrs Hudson appreciatively when John told her about the murders.  “Pity there’s no locked room involved, he does love those.”

“Well, let’s not give up hope just yet, I don’t have all the details, Mrs H,” said John.

“I’m sure it’ll be something fascinating anyway.  Let me get my knitting.”

John waited, feeling somewhat itchy to get back to Sherlock, who would no doubt be pacing impatiently to _go_.  He felt the same – the desire to get out, chase down the suspect, wind in their hair and the thrill of the chase, heart pounding with adrenaline and anticipation….

John couldn’t wait.

By the time Mrs Hudson had gathered her knitting and they’d gone back upstairs, however – Sherlock was gone, with only a hastily scribbled note on the kitchen table as a clue:

_Victims both male omegas with children.  Coincidence or target?  Safer for you here.  SH_

John stared at the note for a few minutes, his jaw clenched.

“I’ll just go back down,” said Mrs Hudson, and made her escape.

*

**To Sherlock Holmes**

**From John Watson**

_Where are you?_

**To Greg Lestrade**

**From John Watson**

_Where is he?_

**To John Watson**

**From Greg Lestrade**

_Where is who?_

**To Greg Lestrade**

**From John Watson**

_You know who._

**To John Watson**

**From Greg Lestrade**

_Isn’t he with you?_

**To Greg Lestrade**

**From John Watson**

_He ran off because he’s an overprotective alpha with an idiotic streak.  Where are you?  I’ll jump in a cab and join you._

**To John Watson**

**From Sherlock Holmes**

_You’re terrible at catching cabs. SH_

**To Sherlock Holmes**

**From John Watson**

_WHERE. ARE. YOU._

**To John Watson**

**From Greg Lestrade**

_He says not to tell you and he’s scarier than you, mate.  Sorry._

*

The lights were still on in 221B’s sitting room when Sherlock stepped out of the cab.  Despite the late hour – nearly midnight – Sherlock somehow wasn’t surprised that John was still awake.

He waited until the cabbie had pulled away before going inside.  The curtains at the windows didn’t so much as twitch.  It would have been infinitely easier to stand out on the kerb all night – there was a cool chill to the otherwise humid air, and Sherlock was still feeling the vestiges of the adrenaline rush that came with solving a case.  So easy to just walk a little bit, at least until he’d rid himself of the nervous energy that came with solving a case.  Better not to walk into the flat, where John was waiting for him, when he was already feeling jumpy and on edge.

Better still not to delay, because John would surely have heard the cab pull up on the quiet street, the door open and close, the cab pull away.  He’d be waiting for the sound of the front door now.  The tick over his eye, his feet itching to tap, and he’d be fighting that particular response because of the impression it gave of annoyed hausfrau. 

Sherlock took a breath, and went inside.

The flat was quiet, except for the faint sizzle of static from the baby monitor resting on the table next to John’s chair.  John’s legs were stretched out, his head bowed forward, his chin nearly on his chest, and for a moment, Sherlock thought he’d fallen asleep there – not entirely unexpected, as John sometimes did precisely that, but not very good, either, because John never slept comfortably in his chair.  He always woke up with a crick in his neck, or a twist in his side, and he’d be grumpy for hours.

And then John moved, and Sherlock realized he had turned a page, and wasn’t asleep, but reading.  Or pretending to read.  His eyes weren’t moving along the page.  Ah, yes.  He’d _been_ reading – sat down some hours before, judging by the teacup and the condensation around the glass of water, and had probably been reading steadily for some time, but now he wasn’t reading because Sherlock stood in the doorway watching him.

John didn’t seem to be tense.  Sherlock had expected tense.  John seemed… quite calm, really.

“Good murder?” asked John pleasantly.

Sherlock felt very nervous.

“Lazy,” said Sherlock off-handedly.  “Wasn’t more than a six when I looked a bit closer.  The murderer wasn’t so much a serial killer as he was a rejected alpha who decided murder was a suitable method of ridding himself of exes who had the audacity to be happy without him.”

“Shame,” said John.  He didn’t sound particularly sorry – for either the tediousness of the case, or its victims.  “So I gather he had a very specific set of targets which included people he had dated.”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Ah.”  John shifted in his chair, tapping his toe against the floorboards, before stopping it abruptly. “That does change things, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock frowned.  “John?”

John pressed his lips together for a moment before speaking.  “I was sitting here, wondering why you would have run off to a murder investigation without me.  I think you’d be rather impressed really; I attacked the problem with as much logic as I could stand, given as you’d once promised not to leave me behind again and yet that was exactly what you had done, to all appearances.  And I decided that you’d left me behind because you felt that given the victims were male omegas with children, I was a particular target and you wouldn’t have wanted to put me in harm’s way.”

“There was perhaps an _unconscious_ decision along those lines, yes—”

“Lucky for you he never dated me, isn’t it, Sherlock?” said John scathingly.  “Since in addition to leaving me here with the kids, you also left me uninformed as to what was going on.  Suppose we’d been the next target, and he was just waiting for you to jump to the chase?”

Sherlock’s blood ran cold before he brushed the thought aside.  “Ridiculous,” he scoffed, mostly for show.  “You’re handy with a gun and well able to protect yourself.  You were in no danger.”

“That’s not the point!”

“Then please enlighten me on what _is_?  Because the way I see it, at least by leaving you here I ensured that Emily and Bartholomew were protected if someone _did_ come to harm them, as you are the only person I trust to be up to the task!”

John slammed his book down on the table next to him; his anger seemed to come out of nowhere, except it really didn’t.  It was the _speed_ of it, really, that caught Sherlock off guard.  “You _promised_ , Sherlock.  A year ago in Ireland, you _promised_ you wouldn’t leave me behind again.  You said you’d made a mistake both times when you did it before and you promised you wouldn’t leave me behind and that’s _exactly_ what you did today!”

Sherlock went into the kitchen – it was at least not directly under Emily’s room, but John was up and after him like a shot.  “This is hardly—”

“Don’t even play that game – it is _exactly_ the same situation.  You perceived that someone out there wanted to kill me and so you locked me in an ivory tower as if I’m some princess in need of protection while you go and slay the dragon.  That’s not how this fairy story _works_ , Sherlock!  I’m not your damsel in distress – I’m capable of deciding where and how I protect my family, and the best protection I can offer is to keep _you_ safe!”

“Keep _me_ safe?  How does that have anything to do with it?”

“Nola Moriarty had you locked up in the cellar, Sherlock.  God knows how long you’d have been there if I hadn’t come to get you out.  And do you really need me to point out the scars or the limp in your leg where you broke it during the fall?”

Sherlock thought he heard a noise from above and glanced at the stairs.  “Lower your voice—”

John lowered his voice to a hiss.  “I don’t need your protection.”

“Emily and Bartholomew—”

“And stop making this about Emily and Bartholomew….”

John might have lost all sense of reason along with his sense of proportion, Sherlock decided.  At least, he was fooling himself as to what they were really arguing about.  “It _is_ about Emily and Bartholomew.  It’s _all_ about Emily and Bartholomew, and you’ve _made_ it all about them.  Would you stop thinking about your wounded pride for one minute and remember that Bartholomew depends on you?  What is he supposed to do if something happens to you, John?  He’s not even fully weaned yet, he’d stop eating entirely, is that what you want?”

John huffed and turned away.  “Oh, don’t even _pretend_ that’s what this is about—!”

“It is _exactly_ what it’s about!”

“It was _your_ idea to nurse him for a full year just as much as it was mine!”

“And he’s nearly weaned already, John, you just don’t want to admit it!  He barely drinks from you as it is, but you insist on nursing him before naps and bedtime as if his entire world depended on it.  You left a crime scene _twice_ last week to do it – nothing would convince you that he’s perfectly happy to go down without it.”

“Because he’s _not_.”

“He fell asleep two weeks ago without any help from you, John!  The Calverton case?  Don’t you remember it?  He went an entire _day_ without needing your milk, John, and he was _fine_.”

John’s back was to him; he leaned on his chair as if for support, but Sherlock could hear the sharp intake of breath, the way John hunched over himself.  “Aberration.”

Sherlock stepped closer.  “Fact.”

“One-off.  He drank twice as long as he usually does the next day.”

“Comfort.  Not nutrition.”

“And if that’s what he needs, then I’ll give him the comfort and I won’t let you fault me for it!”

“ _Your_ comfort, John.  Not his.  You don’t want to wean him, because it means he’s no longer a baby. He’s growing up.  He’s walking, he’s going to be talking soon, he’ll make friends and go to school and learn how to read and write and he won’t need you anymore, and you don’t want to see that.”

He was right behind John now; could see the hairs on the back of John’s neck.  The way John was breathing harshly, and trying to keep it even and steady.  The minute tremor of his skin.  Sherlock touched John’s arm, briefly, just wanting to calm him, but John turned and shoved against Sherlock.  “Fuck you.  Bloody _hell_ , sod off, Sherlock Holmes.”

“I’m sorry,” said Sherlock, holding onto John’s arms, but letting him hit him – the blows didn’t have much power to them.  John was nearly choking with it.  “He’s your last baby.  You only have a few more years of estrus left, and male omegas rarely experience late gravido.  Even if we wanted another—”

“God, no,” said John, choking on a bitter laugh.

“You have to let him grow up.”

John breathed out, pushing his fists into Sherlock’s chest.  “Not yet,” he said.

“No,” Sherlock agreed softly.  “But you can’t keep fighting it, John.”

John breathed, and then looked up at him.  “Why didn’t you take me with you today?  Another forced day away from him?  Why would you pass that up?”

“It needs to be your decision, John.  Not mine.”

“My decision.”  John laughed hollowly.  “Thanks for that.  As if I’m the only parent in this room.  Are you really telling me that if I said I wanted to wean him tomorrow, you wouldn’t try to talk me out of it?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe that.  You’re even more into the breastfeeding for a year tripe than I am.”

“That’s not—”

“What about last month, then?  You pushed me away – like if you even try to _kiss_ me, you might knock me into estrus.”

“You’re not remembering it correctly.”

“Oh, right, sorry.  Pregnancy brain.  Having two children can do that to a bloke, you know,” said John sarcastically.  “Just admit you don’t want me.  That’s fine.  It really is.”

John struggled to push away, but Sherlock instinctively held him tighter.  “Is that what you think?  That I don’t _want_ you anymore?”

“I’m going to bed,” snapped John, not looking at him.

“I want you.  I want you so much it hurts.  I wake up in the middle of the night for wanting you.  I see you playing and talking with Emily, and feeding Bartholomew, and putting him to bed for the night, and I see you talking to Mrs Hudson and insulting my brother and I want you so much I don’t even know what to do with it.  I’d take you right there in front of all of them, lock you in the bedroom until you went into spontaneous estrus and keep you in a state of arousal for days on end, fill you up with my cock and my come until it was dripping out of you.  I can’t look at you for wanting you.  And you think the reason I didn’t want you near me has anything to do with Bartholomew, or weaning, or me trying to keep you safe?  It’s because if you’re standing next to me in a dark alley, John Watson, you won’t be standing for long.  I’ll have you up against the side of the building or next to the skip or on the rooftops, and hang Lestrade’s investigation for a pound because I’ll be too busy fucking you to care whether a murder is a six or a sixty.”

“Fuck,” groaned John.  He wrapped his fingers around the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulled him down roughly for a kiss, his mouth as hot and wet as if he’d been kissing for hours already.  Sherlock twisted John’s jumper in his hands, pressed John’s body into his, and kissed him as much as John allowed him to – it was John’s kiss, after all, and John was clearly going to keep the control of it as long as he could. 

Not that Sherlock minded.  Not a bit.

It took a moment to realize that John was _talking_ , even as he was struggling with Sherlock’s coat.

“You sodding _liar_.  You… sodding _wanker_ , you said….”  John fixed his mouth on Sherlock’s neck, right over his Adam’s apple, and sucked, _hard_ , before releasing the skin with a wet pop.

“I’m an idiot,” gasped Sherlock, his knees already a bit weak.  He sagged against John a bit; John responded by pushing him back into the wall, shoving him so hard the building shook.  At least, Sherlock _thought_ the building shook.  Or maybe it was a passing earthquake.  In London.  Been known to happen.

“Yes, you are,” agreed John as he ripped through the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt, which gave Sherlock all the incentive he needed to do the same to John’s, shoving it roughly off his shoulders and onto the floor – or nearly, as it caught on John’s elbows.  They wrestled with their clothing, still trying to kiss each other in a messy and confused dance, twisting and turning on their feet, ramming into the counter, the table, the fridge, the wall, the doorway, and in one moment, stepping on each other’s feet.

The kisses only grew more frantic once they could touch each other’s skin.  The adrenaline that had seemed to leech out of him on the pavement came back full force when John’s hand snaked into Sherlock’s trousers; Sherlock growled and bucked against him, pushing into the kiss where before he’d been content to let John lead.  He wasn’t content any more – John was hot and delicious and touching him in all the right places, but he was _too fucking slow_ not to mention still clothed.  Sherlock wanted to change that, yesterday, and ran his hands around John’s waist, feeling the skin already beginning to become damp with sweat.  He stepped away from the wall, determined to knock John down onto the floor –

And his legs were suddenly swept out from under him, as John hooked them with his own leg and brought Sherlock crashing to the kitchen floor.  The glasses in their cupboard rattled ominously. 

John straddled Sherlock.  His mouth was wet with kisses, his cheeks flushed, his eyes a bit wild.  His hair was standing up on end, almost.  He already looked debauched.  He was lovely.

“You don’t get to leave me behind,” said John.

“No,” said Sherlock.

“I’m not going to make you promise, since apparently that doesn’t mean much—”

Sherlock’s mouth was dry.  He tried to swallow; it didn’t quite work the way he remembered it going.  “John—”

John shook his head.  “I believe you when you say you trust me, when you want what’s best for the kids.  I believe you when you say you’ll pick up Emily after school, when it comes to feeding or dressing Barty, or changing his nappy once in a while.  I trust you in a lot of things, Sherlock.  But… I can’t trust that you aren’t going to decide that I can’t be a part of something.  I _can’t_.  I’m always going to worry that you don’t see me as _me_ , but as some sodding wilting omega who needs your protection.  I _don’t_.  I never did.”

“John—”

“And I don’t know how to _fix_ that,” continued John, frustrated.  He ran his hand through his hair, making it stick up even more.  “I believe you when you say you don’t want an omega you have to protect – but I can’t _trust_ that, and I know you want to know how to make me do that, and I don’t _know_.”

Sherlock struggled to sit up, and as he did, pulled John down to him, until they breathed the same air.  He was gasping with the effort, with John’s weight on his stomach, with the ache in his cock, for wanting the man sitting on top of him.

“If I ever leave you behind again,” said Sherlock, breathing hard, “shoot me when I return.”

John chuckled, and then stared at him.  “You… you mean that.”

“Right in the heart, John.  Better yet – the stomach.  Might as well – it won’t hurt any more than it already does, going anywhere without you.  I _hated_ today.”

John laughed, and pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s.  “Wasn’t any fun for me, either.”

Sherlock couldn’t hold back any longer; he fell back to the wall, and John followed him, pressing up against him in a kiss, squirming against his body in such a way that Sherlock’s cock was right up against his arse.  Sherlock groaned.

“Don’t… please… not if… I can’t….”

“Sod it all,” said John roughly.  “Sod it… _all_ , just… I need….”

Sherlock didn’t have to hear any more.  His hands where already fumbling with a buckle – he had no idea whose; didn’t matter, they’d both have to go.  Every screaming thought of reason and logic was shoved to the very back of his mind palace, where it was summarily shoved into a well-locked airless little room and promptly forgotten about. 

As any thought that included “Stop Touching John” deserved, really.

Because John was absolutely delightful to touch.  His breath quickened when Sherlock brushed his fingers across his skin; he made the most delicious moans in his throat, and latched onto Sherlock all the more eagerly.  He wriggled and kissed and grabbed and squeezed and was rough in all the right places and all the right ways.  And Sherlock was going to fuck him straight into the fucking _floor_ , just as soon as he could get his pants off of him….

“Daddy?”

Sherlock didn’t want to hear it.  He could almost pretend he _hadn’t_ heard it – but that was impossible, because it echoed in his head, younger and more impossibly innocent with every repetition. 

“Papa!”

Tearful now, and afraid – and Sherlock forgot everything except the little girl who said it.  He sat up as John shifted, hands already at his trousers, trying to pull them in to cover himself.  John turned on a knee toward Emily.

“Here, Em,” he said, his voice still a bit high and shaky, and he opened his arms for the little girl who stood in the sitting room, half hidden by the doorway.

Emily ran – not to John, but to Sherlock, straight into his arms, where she buried her head into his neck and shook like a leaf.

Sherlock’s arms came up around her, slow and uncertain.  He stared down at the little girl in the pink feet pajamas as if he’d never seen something so incongruous, and then up at John as if he’d single-handedly produced her from thin air.

  
Maybe he had.  Some days, it felt like it.

John stared back, and the faint glimmer of shock and hurt dissipated almost as soon as it appeared, melted into a wry and accepting smile.  He gave Sherlock a shrug, and kept buttoning his shirt.

“Nightmare?” Sherlock asked Emily, and she shook her head, pulling his skin in strange directions.  He nuzzled her hair, tried to calm his beating heart, and struggled to his feet, as John tried to steady him.

Sherlock carried the warm weight of Emily back up to the room she shared with Barty; it was glowed with a faint yellow light, lit only by the nightlight high on the shelf, silent except for the paper-soft sound of Barty’s snuffles as he slept. 

Sherlock knelt by Emily’s bed and tried to coax her into it; she was having none of it, instead wrapping her arms more tightly around his neck.

“Tell me,” he whispered.

“I heard you fighting.”  Emily shifted in his arms.

Sherlock stroked Emily’s hair.  “Oh.  It… yes, we were having an argument.  It wasn’t a fight.”

“It _sounded_ like fighting.  I heard bangs and things.”

“I’m sorry we woke you.”

“I don’t like it when you and Daddy fight.”

“I know.  I don’t like it either.”

“If Daddy keeps fighting with you, will you leave again?”

Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat.  It hurt, worse than anything he’d felt when John threw the worst of accusations in his face.  “No.  _No_.”

“You shouldn’t fight with your friends.  It’s not very nice.”  The words sounded rehearsed, as if oft repeated, and Sherlock tried not to smile. 

“You fight with Trevor.”

“I know. “

“But he’s still your friend, and you wouldn’t stop being friends with him, just because you fought about something.”

“Nooooo….”

“Daddy and I fight.  It’s all right, that’s what people who love each other very much do sometimes.  But it doesn’t mean I’m going to leave.”

Emily was quiet for a moment.  “Logan’s mummy lives in Manchester now, because she and her daddy fought all the time.”

“Logan is the little girl whose mother never remembers to pack milk in her lunch?”

Emily nodded.

“I would like to think I’m a great deal more reliable than Logan’s mummy.”

“You _never_ forget the milk,” said Emily loyally, which was how Sherlock knew John wasn’t listening on the other side of the door.  He’d never have been able to contain the laughter.

“Exactly so.  Into bed.”

Emily crawled into the bed, and Sherlock tucked her back in, ensuring that Elphin was safely cuddled in her arms.  He smoothed back the riot of curls from her forehead – far curlier than his own hair, really it was ridiculous – and nuzzled her, just for the comfort of it.

“Tickles,” said Emily, already sleepy again, and batted him away.

He stood up, feeling his knees creak and protest.  He was getting too old to crouch on the floor anymore – just as well that Bartholomew would be the last child.  The only infant he’d ever know, really, thought Sherlock, and went to peer at his son in his cot.

Bartholomew hadn’t woken during the conversation between his father and sister.  Instead, he lay on his back in the dead center of his cot, arms and legs splayed out as if he was trying to take up every last bit of space and claim it as his, even though he barely took up half the cot itself.  His mouth was open just a bit, drool pooling on the mattress below him.  His blond hair was growing long now – well past his ears, where it curled up just a bit at the tips in a faint imitation of Emily’s hair.  Certainly time for a haircut, by anyone’s estimation except for John’s, who glared at anyone who mentioned the possibility.  Bartholomew himself didn’t seem to care either way, even the day when Emily had caught it all back in one of her sparkly purple headbands. 

His breathing was slow and even, the rise of his chest steady.  Sherlock watched him sleep; it was the only time he saw Bartholomew be still.  The boy was a ball of energy when awake.  Crawling here and there, pulling himself up to standing, using anything available to practice his steps.  Up the stairs, down the stairs, tumbling off couches, laps, bending over backwards if anyone held him too long or too tightly.  Swinging from anything high enough that he could swing from it.  He tried to climb the banisters, the tables, the curtains, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft – Sherlock had seen him try to pull himself up on a brick wall.  Everything went into his mouth, despite John’s best efforts; everything was fascinating, everything demanded immediately and close inspection (preferably oral, if manageable).  

He loved knocking over his blocks but hated the crash.  He loved to reach for the dogs he saw on the street but hated when they licked him.  He loved to look at people but hated if they showed too much interest in him.  He loved pouring water over his head but hated having his hair washed. 

He was impossible.  He was a paradox.  He was perfect.

Sherlock resisted the urge to touch him – he hated to go to sleep but would sleep for hours if let be – and went back down the stairs, slowly. 

The sitting room was empty, the lights turned out.  Sherlock saw the thin strip of light from the bedroom, and followed it to find John in the bed, eyes closed but to all appearances, naked under the duvet.

“She all right?” he asked softly.

Sherlock nodded and said nothing, going to the wardrobe as he slowly removed his clothing.  He heard John shift on the bed behind him.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock left his boxer briefs on, and slid into bed next to John, who was indeed naked, and warm, and still faintly flushed, sitting up waiting for him.  Sherlock closed his eyes and bowed his head, and John rested his hand on Sherlock’s cheek, cupping his fingers around the nape of Sherlock’s neck.

“Hey.”

Sherlock shook his head.  “He’s perfect.”

John’s lips were gentle on Sherlock’s.  “I know.”

“I don’t want….”  Sherlock breathed out.  “He’s the only infant I’m ever going to know.  I don’t want—”

“I know.”

“He’s still so small.”

“Sherlock—”

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked directly into John’s.  “We can’t short-change him, John.  I’m not a sex-starved alpha, and neither are you a wanton omega.  It’s only another month.  We can last.  We’ll be all right.”

John smiled, and it wasn’t a bit sad or resigned or any of the feelings Sherlock had swirling inside him and didn’t know how to resolve.  “We’ll be fine.”

John turned out the light, and they rested in each other’s arms, waiting to fall asleep, waiting for morning to come.


	10. October (Barty is 1 year old)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The exciting conclusion. The penultimate chapter. Everything comes to a head? Yeah, I give up. Today is my younger son's first birthday, and thus, the end of this story. I hope it was worth the wait.

As seemed to be the status quo now, the party was held in 221C, decorated with streamers and balloons, with a cake provided by Mrs Hudson, who did not ask John or Sherlock if they wanted a cake, but simply announced she was making strawberry and that was the end of the non-conversation. 

Emily’s first birthday had been a small affair – John hadn’t seen much point to having more than one or two people over – but Emily at the age of 4-and-a-half-and-don’t-forget-the-half had certain ideas about how birthdays were meant to be.  When John proposed having just a few people over for a simple little lunch, she had protested quite loudly until the guest list had expanded to nearly twenty.

“It’ll just be a few,” John explained to Sherlock over breakfast.  “He’s one, he won’t even remember the party really, it’ll be more like a glorified playdate with cake than anything else.  Two or three friends from the playgroup he’s in, and their parents, of course.  You, me, Emily, Mrs Hudson.  That’s all.”

“And Trevor, and Logan, and Marcus, and Teacher Holly,” parroted Emily, marking off the people on her fingers.  Sherlock had looked up sharply from his newspaper.

“The party is for Bartholomew, Emily.  Not for your entire nursery school class, who hardly remember that you _have_ a brother.”

“We’ll invite Trevor,” said John quickly, seeing Emily’s face fall.  “And his parents, of course.  Percy and Gordon are _family_ friends, not just school friends.  You can invite one other friend, but we’ll draw the line there, all right?”

“But I _told_ everyone about it already….”

John groaned. 

Sherlock shook his newspaper.  “Then you can _untell_ them.”

“Pa _pa_.”

“I’ll explain to Teacher Holly and we’ll decide how to handle it,” said John with a sigh.  “Emily, next time you should really ask before inviting people to parties that aren’t actually for you.”

Emily slouched in her chair to sulk, marching her toast soldier across her plate with a glare in her eyes.

“And Uncle Greg.”

“That’ll all right,” said John.

“And Miss Molly.”

“Of course,” said John mildly.

“And Gran, and Grandmama.”

“Our lives wouldn’t be worth living without those estimable ladies,” said Sherlock, a bit morosely.

“And Miss Emma.”

“Emma?” asked John, puzzled. 

“She slips me sweets sometimes and she always asks after Barty,” said Emily.  “And I like her.”

“Fine, fine,” grumbled Sherlock.

“And Uncle Mycroft.”

Sherlock sighed.  “Where there’s cake, I suppose.”

“And Mr Chatterjee downstairs.”

“Oh for God’s sake,” said Sherlock.

“Perhaps not,” said John to Emily.  “But we’ll include him for your birthday if you like.”

“Once we determine which of his wives we ought to invite with him,” said Sherlock, and shook his paper as he turned the page.

Now that 221C was filled with people, John thought Emily was probably right in wanting to invite everyone she knew.  The little studio was comfortable chaos; happy laughter and chattering from all corners: the adults talking over paper plates and slices of strawberry cake in one corner, Emily’s crowd playing some sort of game involving the balloons in the other.  The babies themselves in the center, ignoring each other or stealing each other’s toys as they normally did, and looking about curiously at the commotion surrounding them.  Barty sat in the middle of it all, gnawing on one of his toys, looking about with interest at the people around him, glancing at John or Sherlock for reassurance once in a while.

Sherlock, for all his anti-social tendencies, didn’t seem to be bothered by the people.  This might have been because he had cornered Lestrade and they were in deep discussion – well, _one-_ sided discussion – probably about a cold case.  At least, John hoped it was a cold case; he didn’t really feel like dashing out immediately following the party to chase down a criminal.  One child’s birthday spent as detectives looking for the seedy underbelly of London was enough for a lifetime.

The room was hot with the excess people.  John sidled up to Mrs Hudson, still handing out slices of cake.  Strawberry, as promised, with mountains of sugary frosting; Barty had stared in wonder before smashing his hands on top in eager anticipation.  John knew the feeling; he’d eaten six slices of toast that morning, slathered with strawberry jam, and it hadn’t tempered his desire for a bite of the cake.  And yet looking at it now, the thought of having a single bite was making him feel somewhat nauseous.

“Mind if I open a few windows?”

“It is a bit warm in here,” agreed Mrs Hudson.  “Go on, love, you’re looking a bit flushed.”

“Ta,” said John, and couldn’t help the surge of affection that pushed him forward to kiss her cheek.  Mrs Hudson laughed gaily and touched the slightly damp spot.

“You darling man.  What’s got into you?”

“No idea, Mrs H,” said John with a grin, and he went to open the windows into the back garden.  There was just enough breeze in the overcast day that he could smell the rain on the horizon, the tang of fresh grass in nearby Regent’s Park.  John hung out of the window for a moment, letting the cool air outside settle on his skin, and then pulled back inside the room, which seemed all the stuffier for having been outside.

John spied Percy sitting with Mavis on the far side of the room; he went to join his friend.

“Oh, good, hold her,” said Percy, and immediately handed the baby over.  Mavis was fussing, but went to John easily.  She was a great deal lighter than Barty, and far less squirmy, even when trying to get back to her dad, who was already unbuttoning his shirt for a feed. 

“I thought you were bottle-feeding,” said John, surprised.

“You’re a terrible influence,” Percy said, and took his daughter back.  “It’s not so bad, but my nipples are killing me.  I should tell you, Gordon’s taking mental notes on the party for when we have Mave’s first birthday.”

“That’s four months from now.”

“He’s obsessed.  How much longer until you wean your little monster?”

“Two weeks ago, actually,” admitted John.

Percy’s eyebrows went up.  “Mr I’m-going-to-breastfeed-for-a-year?”

John shrugged and sat down next to Percy, stretching out his legs.  “That was the plan.  Barty had other ideas.  He just… didn’t want it one day.  And the next, and the next, and then it was a whole week, and by the time he decided he might want another go – there wasn’t anything left anyway.”

“Wow, mate.”  Percy shifted Mavis a bit.  “He looks like he’s doing all right, though.”

“Yeah.  I should have expected it, really – it’s not so much us raising him, as him informing us when he’s ready to move on to the next stage.  I fully expect him to wake up one morning and announce he’s finished with nappies and please where’s the loo?”

Percy snorted.  “Would that it was that easy.  Trevor demanded to water every flower garden we passed for three months.”

“I remember.”

Percy glanced down at Mavis, and then pointedly at where John was sitting.  “So… two weeks, eh?”

John made a show of shifting in his chair, and Percy snorted.

“Well,” he said, “sometimes it takes a bit.”

“Yeah,” agreed John, listlessly.

Mavis pushed away from Percy’s chest and yawned widely.  “Seep,” she said, her eyelids already mostly closed.

“Yes, sleep,” groaned Percy, shifting the baby to cover himself up again.  “Sleeping is lovely, sleeping is the best.  No wonder you can say it, you hear us beg you to do it twenty times a day.”

John grinned.  “Not bad for a first word.”

“Oh, we passed _that_ a month ago.  I think she’s got about ten, but that’s only because I haven’t figured out what the others are yet.”

“Ten,” echoed John, and he glanced over at Barty, still sitting in the midst of the chaos, contentedly watching everyone else.  “That’s… a lot.”

“Nothing from Bart yet?”

John shook his head.

“Well, he’s a boy,” said Percy.  “Trevor didn’t talk until he was about a year, and then it was nonstop nonsense.”

“Sherlock apparently didn’t say a word worth repeating until he was three or four.”

“Well, there you go,” said Percy, and he shifted Mavis to his other shoulder.  “You ready for another one?”

“Christ, no.  I’m done.”

“So you say.”  Percy shifted the baby and scanned the room.  “Speaking of the holy terrors, do you see them?”

“Jane has them, wherever they are.  Figure the crawlers can’t get into as much trouble as the combined force of Emily and Trevor.”

“Truth, mate.”  Percy glanced down at Mavis, already fast asleep.  “Christ, I can’t wait to wean her.  I mean – it’s nice, I like it, but… I am really, really horrifically randy.  Good thing she wasn’t a boy, we might have named her that.”

John snorted.  “Stupid sodding science.”

“You said it.  They can send a man to the moon, they can’t manufacture a condom that would bloody work on alphas in a frenzy.”

“John,” interrupted a voice – Mycroft.  John looked up.

“Ah, the very man.  Mycroft, you’ve got a couple dozen scientists at your beck and call in Baskerville.  Get them on that, won’t you?”

“What makes you think they aren’t already?” asked Mycroft dryly.  “I was wondering if I could have a word.”

“The last time you said that at a birthday party, Mycroft, the day didn’t particularly end well.”

“I’m aware.  However, in this case I only wish to give Bartholomew our gift before we must leave.”

“Going already, what a shame,” said Sherlock, appearing with a smug look on his face.  “Regimes to topple, chaos to create, and you’ve already had three slices of cake.  I suppose we can’t keep you any longer.”

Mycroft smiled thinly at Sherlock.  “Yes, thank you, so glad to see parenthood has made you this much more witty.”

In the center of the room, Emma was already presenting a large, brightly-colored box to Barty, who looked curious and wary at the same time.  His eyes fixated on the rather large bow on top of the box, and he nimbly grabbed hold of the top and hauled himself to his feet, which gave him better access to grab the bow and pull.

“A bow,” said Sherlock.  “Fascinating present, that’ll keep him enthralled for hours.”

“Oh, do shut up,” said Mycroft.

Emma gently pulled the bow out of Barty’s mouth, and helped him remain steady as she pulled the top off the box, and then lifted the actual present out of it to set on the floor next to Barty’s feet.

John heard Sherlock’s breath catch, and heard Mycroft’s satisfied snort of pleasure.

It was a pirate ship.  Plastic, quite large and chunky, clearly made for rough play by a toddler, but still recognizable as a pirate ship.  There was a large base which looked wide enough to allow it to float comfortably; several open windows and holes where small hands could reach inside to store treasure chests of gold, cannons, people, and other piratey things – some of which Emma was now pulling out of the box and setting alongside the ship, including a smaller rowboat and a pirate captain with a fantastic hat.  There was a gangplank for walking, a tall mast with a sail, and various little chubby sailors, holding rope, spyglasses, parrots, and other nautical objects.

John itched to take a closer look.  He was almost surprised Sherlock was still standing nearby and hadn’t swooped in to start playing with the ship himself.

“Well,” said Mycroft, quite satisfied.  “I think we’ll be on our way now.  Governments to topple, etcetera.  A very happy day to both of you.”

“A _pirate ship_!” shouted Emily from the rear of 221C, and then there was a flurry of feet as she ran in and skidded to a stop by the toy.  The entire front of her dress was sopping wet, and Trevor, running close behind, didn’t look much drier.  “Does it float?  Let’s see if it floats.”

There was a scuffle as Emily scooped up the pirate ship out of Barty’s curious hands, and made way for the lavatory, Trevor on her heels. 

Barty let out a petulant howl of dismay as Jane’s gentle scolding did nothing to halt Emily’s progress.  “Emily, that’s _Barty’s_ toy, you can’t snatch it away from him like that—!”

“Oh now,” scoffed Sherlock, and turned as if to go after them.

John reached out for Sherlock.  “Jane’s got it,” he said, just as he grabbed Sherlock’s hand, and if he’d meant to say anything else, it was lost in the sudden shock of heat, the rush of blood that went straight through his arm, down his chest, and into his cock. 

It came over him so fast that John wondered exactly how long he’d been ignoring it – surely heats didn’t move this quickly?  What happened to the slow burn as it crept up, the day or so of warning he’d have in advance… except the room _had_ been feeling warm.  And he _had_ been feeling a bit ill the day before, a little slower, a little more sluggish.  Six slices of toast that morning… the odd nauseas feeling just twenty minutes previously….

_Oh, bloody wanking fuckering… of all the times…._

John’s entire body seemed to erupt into flame; sweat broke out on his forehead and his heart started to pound in his chest; he could feel his blood coursing through his veins, and the entire world dropped away, except for Sherlock, who stared back at him with wide eyes.  John could _smell_ him now, the faded chemical residue on his hands from that morning’s experiments, the lavender in their clothes, the product in his hair, and under all of that, the smoky musk of Sherlock’s sweat and sex. 

“John,” breathed Sherlock, and drew in such a deep breath that his nostrils flared.  His eyes were dark as his pupils expanded.  “ _John_.”

A birthday party, ending in a heat.  Par for the course, really.

“Oh, bloody fuck,” said John.

“Oh, this is promising,” said Percy from somewhere very far away.  “Oi, Mycroft, do them a favor.  Stick around for a bit so they can go upstairs and have a happy wank without kids running underfoot.”

“Or better still,” said Sherlock, eyes still focused squarely on John, who wasn’t so much following the conversation as just letting it wash over him, mixed in with the churning in his stomach as the beginnings of his estrus crashed over him.  “Get out.  With everyone else, too.”

Mycroft sighed heavily and glanced at his watch.  “Just once, I would like to attend a birthday party where the day does not end with you two shagging like rabbits.”

“Boring,” announced Sherlock.

“I’m with Mycroft,” said John, but his knees were already trembling and giving way.  He tried to take a deep breath, and instead got a mouthful of _Sherlock-spicy-rich-thick-oh-god-he-smells-divine-I-want-him-in-me-now_ and he sagged.  “Sherlock….”

“Might I remind you that there _will_ be a car in approximately 90 minutes to whisk the children and yourselves to Sussex and Mummy for the rest of the weekend,” said Mycroft smoothly.  “Under the circumstances, she will not mind if you make your excuses and send the children with Jane instead.”

“I knew you had your uses,” said Percy admiringly.

Sherlock squeezed John’s hand as he turned to the room.  “Everyone.  An announcement.  Stay, go, I don’t care.  But please keep the children down here for the next few hours.  Thank you.”

And then without any further delay, he pulled John straight out of the room and up the stairs to 221B.

“The children,” gasped John as they went through the hall.

“Will be here for another ninety minutes, John.  We’ll have knotted twice before then and can safely suffer through a five-minute long period of looking presentable.”  Sherlock rounded the base of the stairs and dragged John up.

“At least we’ve already sung and had cake.”

“Yes, pity about that.  Plan it better next year.”

John was giggling by the time they reached the landing, where Sherlock began to fuss with the door.  “Did… did you just announce to the entire party that I’m going into heat?”

“Not in so many words, but yes,” said Sherlock, suddenly impatient.  “John.  You locked the _door_ , why did you lock the door?”

“Habit.  Keys are in my pocket.”

Sherlock didn’t hesitate, although it might have been a good idea. He plunged his hand into John’s front pocket, the tips of his fingers brushing up against John’s cock, already mostly hard.

His fingers were cold even through several layers of fabric; John wanted to both melt into the wall and snog Sherlock senseless; his eyes closed with the sudden rush of pheromones, every nerve ending in his pelvic region going completely haywire by the close proximity of alpha male just entering a frenzy.

“Oh my fuck,” groaned John, and he started to slide down the wall just as Sherlock hooked the keys around his finger and pulled them out of the pocket.  John barely heard them in the lock, and then the door was shoved open and he was thrown unceremoniously through it and on the couch on the opposite side. 

Sherlock was on him in a moment, breathing so heavily he was nearly panting.   His mouth was hot on John’s neck, instinctively going for the bond bite, where he could nuzzle and press against it, renewing the mark as he staked his claim. 

“Two weeks,” groaned Sherlock, half gone in the frenzy already, and John shoved against him, ineffectually.  “It took _two weeks_.”

“Did you think I’d be in estrus that _night_?”

“Yes!”

Sherlock’s hands were on John’s collar, scrambling for the button; John’s head rolled back to allow him better access, but then he felt Sherlock’s finger stroke against his neck, and somehow that gave him the strength to shove Sherlock fully off him and onto the floor with a crash.

“Ow,” said Sherlock, staring up at the ceiling.

“Oh, God, you didn’t even close the door,” groaned John, sitting up.  “We are moving this to the bedroom.  Now.”

“Why?” moaned Sherlock, still on the floor.

“Because I do _not_ want to have the sex conversation with Emily if she decides to come looking for us.”

“She’s four.  It’s high time—”

“ _Or_ with Mycroft.”

Sherlock shuddered, and rolled over to his hands and knees to crawl to the door.  John waited until he was past him before bolting for the bedroom, feet pounding on the floor.

He had time to wonder, briefly, what all their guests downstairs thought about the noise, before Sherlock tackled him in the short hall between the kitchen and the bedroom.

“Hello,” said Sherlock, almost purring, and kissed the back of John’s neck.  John sighed with the frisson of cool pleasure, and pressed his hands into the floor.

“I am too old for this,” he said into the floorboards.  “And this floor is much too uncomfortable.”

“Mmm,” agreed Sherlock, and started kissing down John’s spine through his shirt.  “You’re also wearing too much clothing.”

“So are you.”

_Rip_.  _Pop-pop-pop-pop_.

“Working on that,” said Sherlock.

“Did you just pop your buttons across the hall?” asked John, amazed.

“Remind me to perform an experiment on the aerodynamic properties of buttons.”  John could feel his shirt being pulled out from his trousers.

“I’ll add it to the list.  _Holy fuck, Sherlock_ ,” groaned John as Sherlock pressed a kiss to the base of his spine, newly exposed to the air. 

“Your trousers are too tight.”

“I did _not_ gain weight, you arse.”

“I _meant_ that I can’t pull them down unless I can access the button and fly closures.  You should wear elastic trousers.”

“Says the man in bespoke suits and shirts.”  John pushed up against Sherlock and rolled to his back.  He fumbled with his belt and button – Sherlock’s eager attempts to help were more of a hindrance than anything else.  Soon enough, he was able to push everything down in one rough, scraping motion that left a slick line of his precome along his leg.  His cock, nearly fully erect, sprang free; the damp skin around his gaping hole felt suddenly cold in the air. 

And then not cold, as Sherlock dropped his own trousers to around his knees, and covered him there on the spot, kissing him so deeply and thoroughly that John almost forgot about the people downstairs, the party left in its throes (and theirs, honestly), the hard floor against his back, the shoes on his feet… everything disappeared except for the aching feeling of _empty, empty, fill me, for God’s sake, fill me now, need, need, want, yes, you, yes_.

And Sherlock, kissing him, tasting of strawberries and tea and cream and sugar.  John wanted to crawl into Sherlock; wanted to suck him down and hold him so closely they melded together.  He spread his legs as wide as he could manage, hampered by the trousers still around his ankles, and when he felt Sherlock’s massive alpha cock slide against his arse, he angled his hips back to give him better access.

“Can’t… find....” groaned Sherlock, and John reached down and grabbed Sherlock’s cock in his hand, a bit too roughly if Sherlock’s cry was anything to go by, and moved it until it was nearly breaching his hole.

“There,” he gasped, and Sherlock thrust in one not-quite-smooth motion, halfway in, and John let go, and fell back to the floor, stretching his arms above him.  It was almost painful – burning like fire as he stretched around a cock for the first time in over a year.  He could hear Sherlock huffing against his skin, mouthing against the bond bite, and John stretched his arms up until he could feel his muscles burn and ache, everything inside of him popping and sparking as Sherlock pushed inside to the very limit.

And then, just before the knot – already beginning to grow – pressed at John’s arse, Sherlock bit down on the bond bite, _hard_ , and John shouted as Sherlock’s knot pushed inside with a _twump_. 

That was all his body needed: John came, his entire body wracked with the force of it, everything pushing down to the very center of him, a wave both hot and cold and desperate surging through his body.  John couldn’t hold onto anything – everything was the force of his orgasm, everything was pleasure in pure-golden-liquid-light form, filling him up and spilling him over, wet delicious rushes of come flooding every part of him.  There was nothing in the world except for John, and the cock inside of him, and Sherlock on top of him, and the delicious heat and joy and love that bound them together.

John wanted it to go on forever. 

Sherlock went still, except for his mouth, still working on John’s neck, the teeth no longer biting but his lips gently massaging the sore and newly tender skin.  John’s arms floated down to rest on Sherlock’s shoulders, fingers barely touching.  He breathed hard, short small gasps, and pressed his lips to where Sherlock’s shoulder turned into arm, the generous curve of it, and bit down gently, leaving his own mark.  He heard Sherlock moan softly with it, and John kissed the skin before biting again, gently. 

“It won’t mark,” said Sherlock, sluggish with sleep, happy and exhausted and nuzzling John’s skin.

“I know,” said John, and he bit again, just for good measure. 

The world began to creep in.  The hard floor pressing up against John’s spine.  The cold air in the flat tickling the hairs on the back of his arm.  The way his ankles were bound together by his trousers, twisting his hips into an odd position that would surely make him cramp if sustained for too long.

John dragged his heels against the floor in a futile attempt to remove his shoes.  “Worse than bloody teenagers, we are.”

“Mmm,” agreed Sherlock, and squeezed John tightly as another wave of orgasm rushed through him, into John, who sucked in a breath as he was filled up again.  “Sorry about… not making it… to the bed.”

“No, you’re bloody not.”

“Not really.”

“At least you shut the door,” sighed John, and bit his shoulder again, this time a bit more roughly.

Music began to drift up from downstairs.  It took John a moment to place it: some favored song of Emily’s, and it sounded as if every person downstairs was singing lustily along.

Lustily.  John began to giggle.

“Oh, Christ.  We just left our son’s first birthday party to have sex in the hall.”

“Mmm,” said Sherlock happily. 

John shook his head and stroked Sherlock’s back.  “We made it.”

“Hmm?”

“A year of breastfeeding.  We did it.  Well, almost did it.  Close enough.”

“Indeed.”  Sherlock shifted, lifting himself up to look at John.  “Do you think it was worth it?”

“For a truly epic shag in the hall?”  John thought for a moment, and then grinned.  “I don’t know.  I think I might need a repeat performance to be sure.  Except maybe on a bed.”

Sherlock leaned down and kissed him, and the rest of the world floated away again.

*

Emily was not terribly put out when her fathers reappeared to announce that they were no longer going to Sussex for the weekend.

“But I can go?” she clarified, giving them a suspicious look.

“Absolutely,” said Daddy, who knelt down as if he were a bit stiff, like he’d fallen down the stairs once or twice. Or maybe onto Gran’s bins.  Emily liked that story, except usually it wasn’t Daddy who had any part of the falling.  “And Jane will go with you, and bring you back tomorrow afternoon.  Or maybe Monday.  Or Tuesday.”

“I have school Monday,” Emily reminded him.

“I think it might be cancelled,” said Papa.

“But—”

“Cancelled,” said Papa firmly.  He leaned over and gave Barty a kiss on the top of the head.  “The school rung just a moment ago.  Terrible accident.  Fire.  It’ll take days to repaint.”

“It’s _Saturday_ ,” said Emily.  “School’s _closed_ , they can’t ring anyone!”

“You don’t mind?” Daddy was asking Jane, who shook her head.

“Not a bit.  It’s only labwork this week, I can make it all up later.”

“If you need assistance—” said Papa.

“Oh, I know who to ask,” said Jane with a grin.

Emily stomped her foot.  “Just because _Jane_ can miss school, doesn’t mean _I_ can.  We’re learning about _dinosaurs_.”

“They’re dead, they’ve been dead, they’ll still be dead next week,” said Papa briskly.  “Off you pop now.  Goodbye, Emily.”

He leaned over to kiss her cheek, and Emily glared at him.

“You smell funny.”

Papa froze.  Daddy’s eyes boggled, and then he burst into giggles.

“I’ll put him in the bath straight away,” said Daddy, and then Papa went bright pink in the ears.

“Before this conversation delves further into iniquity,” said Uncle Mycroft dryly, and Emily had no idea what that meant, but she wasn’t given the chance to ask, because the adults gave her another round of strange-smelling hugs and feathery kisses and she was promptly bundled into the back of the waiting car and strapped in.

“I have _school_ ,” she informed Jane icily, while Jane strapped Barty into his carseat.  Barty gave a wide yawn and clutched the pirate ship.

“I know.  But you also have a grandmother on the other end, and a pond with a kitten.”

Emily had forgotten about the pond.  She eyed Barty’s pirate ship, and wondered if it would float in the pond as well as it floated in the tub.

*

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief as the car pulled away.  He settled his arm around John’s shoulders for a moment, and breathed in the scent of his hair.  Tea and sex and gunpowder – not a trace of milk, not anymore.  Already the pheromones were rising up again – the quick shower they’d both taken to wash off the worst of it might never have actually occurred, if the looks they were getting from other people on the street were any indication.

“Yes, do go back inside,” said Mycroft, somewhat irritated.  “You’re both completely indecent.”

“We’re wearing clothes,” said John in defense.

“For all that it matters,” said Mycroft.  “Enjoy your time together, gentlemen….”

Sherlock made an odd sound in his throat.

“Might keep an eye on the calendar,” added Mycroft, and set off down the street, where Emma was waiting with another car.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” grumbled Sherlock.

But John had gone very still, staring after Mycroft.

“Bollocks,” he said faintly.

Sherlock glanced at him. 

“Time,” said John, eyes still wide.  “The calendar.  As in when you’re meant to take medications.  Such as birth control.  Usually in the mornings.”

Sherlock stared at John, who turned slowly to stare back at him.

He swallowed.  It was a strangely difficult thing to manage.  “John.  Did you… this morning… remember….”

“No.”

He swallowed again.  “And… yesterday morning?”

“I… no.”

Sherlock blinked.

John took a deep breath, and tugged on his hand.  “Oh, sod it.”

And pulled him back upstairs for more.


End file.
